It's Ever So Quiet Counting Down
by foreverabean
Summary: "My name is Blaine Anderson-Button, and I arrived here under some very unusual circumstances." Klaine/Benjamin Button crossover/AU. Warnings for eventual character death.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Oh boy, here we go. **

**This is the hopeful start of my latest insanity - a Benjamin Button Klaine AU/Crossover. You do not have have watched The Curious Case of Benjamin button to read this (however, it would help a lot), though newcomers be warned that this will be heavy on the angst and THERE IS CHARACTER DEATH. This will stick very close to the original movie storyline, but some changes will be made for the characters' sake. I'm definitely trying not to make this seem like plagiarism, but it is a crossover fic, so very close similarities are a given. **

**If you want to be familiar with the story but don't want to watch the movie, you can just head on over to IMDB, search Benjamin Button, and read the full movie synopsis. I'll be posting this over at Scarves & Coffee as well, so if reading it there is more your forte, you're in luck. **

**I intentionally did not check to see if there were any other Klaine/Button fics, merely so any similarities will be completely accidental. I'm just doing this to get me through the summer, really, and because it wouldn't stop jumping around in my head.**

**Warnings (limited only to this chapter): brief mention of character death, implied upcoming character death, mostly an overall depressing feel.**

**I don't claim any ownership of Glee, Benjamin Button, the original story, or the characters.**

**Alright, here's hoping you enjoy!**

* * *

Kurt Hummel is dying. It isn't something to fret over, or try to run from in the hopes that the end result will be escape; it just is.

The winds of the storm howl against the windows like death itself and the branches of a sapling scrape their way across the glass with agonizing slowness. Kurt coughs lightly, feeling his old and cracking bones rattle in protest, and he can't help the small noise of pain that escapes his dry lips.

"Dad?" Elizabeth hurries to his side, strands of her brown hair drooping sadly from the messy bun at the nape of her neck. "Are you okay? Do you want me to get the nurse?"

Kurt shakes his head weakly, even while pain crouches heavily on his chest, hovering like a vulture as Kurt struggles for air.

"No, no, I want to… I want to stay awake," he wheezes, for he knows that the pain meds will send him drifting off, away from the reality that's slipping so quickly from his grasp. This close to the end, Kurt wants as many lucid, living moments as he can bargain for.

Elizabeth looks uncertain and she glances worriedly at Kurt's many beeping, whirring monitors, blue eyes glazed with exhaustion. Kurt knows only too well what having family in the hospital is like, and he reaches out a veined, wavering hand to comfort his daughter. She takes it immediately, clinging on like her grip alone will save him from the fate Kurt knows has been a long time coming.

"What can I do, Daddy?" she whispers, perching on the edge of Kurt's hospital bed. "Are you sure you don't want the pain meds?"

Kurt nods his head once and fights for an inhale, arranging his words in a way that will make as much use of his remaining oxygen as possible. "Will you… read to me?" He lifts his other hand, grimacing against the weight of it. It's as though a ball and chain has been attached to his wrist since the last time he looked down at it.

Elizabeth's eyes follow Kurt's finger and she turns, hands hovering questioningly over the faded, leatherback journal on the table at the end of Kurt's bed. It's conspicuously distressed beside Kurt's folded clothes and the keepsakes that Elizabeth will be taking home with her – more than likely before the day is done. Kurt nods, eyes fluttering briefly closed at the dull throb of pain that blossoms from his temples to the base of his skull.

"Never… I never read it. This might be my… last chance. If you would, sweetheart…"

Elizabeth takes the journal carefully into her hands but doesn't open it. Instead she scoots closer to Kurt's bony knees and whispers, "Oh, Daddy," tears pooling in her tired eyes.

"Shh," Kurt breathes softly, grasping at her hand. He doesn't want tears; Kurt has already accepted the inevitable with dry eyes, which means he's unable to bear any tears from his only daughter. There's enough water present already, flooding the streets and coming in waves down the sides of the hospital – they don't need to add to it.

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth stammers, swiping at the tears with the sleeves of her gray sweater. "It's just… ever since Rachel –"

"I know," Kurt interjects gently, and Elizabeth nods, taking a deep breath and offering a watery smile. The muscles in Kurt's face have long since slackened and refused most commands, but he manages a crooked grimace that surely looks nothing like a smile but hopefully conveys the same emotion.

Elizabeth pats Kurt's knee and turns her attention to the journal, thumbing over the waterspots and cracks in the faded leather. "How long have you had this, Dad?"

"Too long," he answers, fighting past the dryness in his throat. A whole world of water just outside the window, and his throat decides it wants to become the Sahara desert. He would sigh, but he fears he would become nothing but dust. Oh, how time breaks you down; it's recycling, that's all it is. In a very short amount of time, Kurt Hummel is going to become soil to some unsuspecting family's gardenias, and there's nothing he can do about it.

"You really never read it?" Elizabeth asks, standing to pull the nearest lounge chair closer to the bed.

"I never even opened it. I… I couldn't bring myself to even read the first page…"

Elizabeth's brows furrow slightly but she says nothing as she settles herself in the chair. Kurt focuses on the pounding rain, trying to keep his heart steady as Elizabeth unwinds the frayed ribbon from around the journal and lets it fall open in her lap.

"There's a lot of stuff in here, postcards and letters… this receipt has your name on it," she adds, holding up a yellowed credit card receipt that dates back to the 1960s. Kurt tries for a frail smile but this time his face refuses to cooperate whatsoever and he has to clear his throat painfully several times before he can speak.

"Just start with the entries, I think…"

Elizabeth carefully moves the stack of papers to Kurt's bedside table and oh, Kurt recognizes that postcard, he _wrote _that postcard, back when his body was young and strong and he did not yet know what love was –

"Dad? Dad!" Elizabeth's bent forward, one hand on the edge of Kurt's bed, eyes fixed anxiously on Kurt's heartbeat, rising in a frenzied zig-zag on the monitor. The beeping resounds in Kurt's ears and he tries to calm himself, taking in a shaky breath that feels more like a lungful of razorblades.

"'M all right," he mumbles, waving a weak hand. "Go on, Lizzy, please…"

Elizabeth hesitates before sinking back into the chair and clearing her throat, eyes flickering down to the yellowed page.

Hurricane Katrina roars outside the hospital and Kurt closes his eyes, ignoring the pain that's started to hum inside him like a beehive as Elizabeth begins to read.

_"This is my last will and testament. I have nothing to leave but my story, which I'm trying to get down before the details become too fuzzy._

_ My name is Blaine Anderson-Button, and I arrived here under some very unusual circumstances."_


	2. Chapter One

**Warnings for this chapter: child abuse (questionable?), OC death, Quick (idk if that's really a problem but thought I would warn you anyways)**

**Again, might be helpful to at least read the synopsis of the movie so you know what's going on. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Time is a strange thing. It drags on at inopportune times, speeds ahead when all you want to do is live in that one moment forever, and makes you wonder at how much of it you've wasted. One way or another, time will always let you think that you are in control before it rips your delusions away from you and leaves you reeling.

Despite all of time's imperfections, it is the same for everyone; a constant ebb and flow in one direction. The order is always "once upon a time" before "happily ever after," always prologue before epilogue, beginning before end. It is the way of things, and no one has ever challenged it.

No one except an old clockmaker, blind since birth and grieving for the son he had lost to the war. He fashioned a new kind of clock, one born of his crippling grief and desperation for the return of a son that knew only the lid of a casket. Without sight, under only his hands, the clockmaker created a clock that defied time.

Driven half-mad by sorrow, the blind clockmaker announced that the clock that ran backwards instead of forwards could perhaps bring all the lost sons home again, return them safe and smiling to their parents' arms.

The crowd that had gathered at the train station for the unveiling of the great clock was silent and uneasy, and the clockmaker left without another word. He was never seen again, but the clock remained, ticking steadily backwards.

And this is where our story begins, with time and how it is altered, in New Orleans circa 1918, on the day remembered by all as the day the war ended. The streets teemed with partiers; hats were flung skyward with exultant cries and car horns blared from every corner. Fireworks burst in the sky with cracks and pops that were nearly drowned out by the cheering. Everyone was out of their homes, celebrating the return of the sons that had made it through the war, rejoicing the peace that was sure to settle. Only one man avoided the crowds, sprinting through the darkness as if a beast were snapping at his heels. A priest clinging to the doorframe of the man's house called after him, but his cry was lost in the crackle of a freshly launched firework.

Time is a strange thing, but no one knew it more than Thomas Anderson-Button.

Nearly staggering with grief, Thomas continued his manic pace down the alleys of New Orleans, skirting the crowds that threatened to suffocate. The bundle in his arms was silent, perhaps lulled to sleep by Thomas's rocking gait, but Thomas was repulsed, gut twisting with every breath the thing took. This _creature, _for he refused to call it a _baby_, was responsible for the death of his wife, and having it this close to him was almost more than Thomas could bear. His mind flashed back to the bedchamber – _blood, so much blood _– and he choked back a breathless sob, shuddering at the proximity of the monster swaddled in his arms.

Feet dragging on the cobblestones, Thomas came to a halt by the riverbank, chest heaving with anguish, and stared out at the rushing water. A single toss and it would all be over. Thomas stepped closer to the edge, toes peeking out over the drop, and closed his eyes, preparing to let the bundle fall into the murky river below.

A soft gurgle broke his concentration, and Thomas faltered as the creature stirred in his grasp. Thomas hesitantly let his eyes open and lower, and a pair of milky, unfocused eyes blinked slowly up at him. Thomas sucked in a sharp breath and looked away, heart beating too fast, blood pounding in his ears, and his resolve wavered.

This night had already witnessed one death too many – sweet, beautiful Charlotte; Thomas couldn't fathom that he would never hold her again – and Thomas did not consider himself a cruel man. He could not just condemn the creature to death when it had only just started to live. And what was the gain? Charlotte would have died for nothing, exchanged her life for the child only to have it drown in a riverbed at Thomas's hands. Thomas could not do it.

But he couldn't even bear to look at it! He could not imagine waking each day to care for the repulsive, sickly thing that had inadvertently caused the death of his only love. He had been strong once, a firm, self-assured man, but no longer, not after watching the life drain from Charlotte's eyes.

Thomas slowly backed away from the riverbank, shifting the bundle in his arms. There had to be a way… anything that would free him of responsibility, rid him of the abomination without resorting to murder.

He walked for what felt like hours, tears rolling freely down his cheeks, his mind reeling. _Charlotte dead. _His whole world felt like it was crumbling around him, while just streets over people still celebrated and launched fireworks into the sky.

Just as his feet began to drag once more and he could barely stand to hold the thing any longer, Thomas passed another abandoned porch and came across a house that hummed with activity. Music and gentle laughter spilled with soft yellow light out onto the lawn, and Thomas could see the silhouettes of two people through the screen of the back porch. Swallowing hard and making up his mind once and for all, he shifted the creature to one arm and dug inside his coat for a fold of bills. Stooping to place the bundle on the porch steps, he tucked the money into the blankets and knocked sharply on the door. Then, with one last look back that was of a man broken beyond any hope of repair, Thomas hastened away into the night.

* * *

"Noah, you know I have to be inside, one of the elders is bound to mess themselves any minute –"

"Just a moment of your time, Miss Fabray, that's all I'm asking," Noah implored, hazel eyes soft as he took Quinn's hand and tugged her gently towards the door.

Quinn pursed her lips to hold back a smile and allowed herself to be led onto the screened-in porch, tucking a loose wave of hair behind her ear as she went. The door clicked shut behind them, muting the joyful shouts and music and giving way to the chirp of crickets in the warm night air.

"Noah, we've been over this, you can call me Quinn."

Noah ducked his head, smiling abashedly and spinning his cap around and around in his hands. Quinn laughed quietly and took Noah's hands in her own, stilling them. Noah shifted his hat to one hand and laced their fingers together, gazing down at her with gentle eyes.

"You look very beautiful tonight, Quinn." Quinn smiled and lifted her hand to run her thumb over the blush high on Noah's cheek.

"It's not every day I get to dress up like this." She shrugged.

"Too bad," Noah laughed, eyes flicking to her lips and back up before he leaned in to kiss her softly. Quinn's heart fluttered in her throat and let Noah pull her closer, hands lifting to cradle his face before a sharp knock on the porch door made them both jolt.

"Who could be calling at this hour?" Quinn muttered, a little flushed, sidestepping to push the door open.

"Make them wait," Noah whispered, hands encircling her waist, and she giggled slightly and slapped at his shoulder.

"Don't be rude, Noah – hello?" She squinted through the darkness, but no one made an appearance. She frowned and Noah's hand found her elbow instead, tugging slightly.

"People thinking it's funny to play pranks," she sighed. "Drunk out of their minds, I bet – what, Noah?" Noah's tugging had become more insistent and Quinn turned sharply to see him staring down at the steps. Perplexed, Quinn followed his gaze and inhaled sharply, her hand flying to her throat.

"Is that… a baby?" Noah asked blankly, eyes wide, and Quinn hurried to kneel beside the small bundle that looked, for all intents and purposes, as if it had just been left carelessly on the porch steps.

"Who would leave a baby alone on a night like this?" Quinn demanded of no one in particular, carefully pulling back the blankets to get a good look at the infant.

She gasped, yanking back just as Noah exclaimed, "Lord almighty!"

The baby – if it was indeed a baby – was bald, like all newborns, but any similarities ended there. Deep wrinkles furrowed the baby's face, carving gulleys through its forehead and pulling its eyes to a squint. Its skin was leathery, as if worn for a hundred years. If Quinn hadn't known better, she would say that a tiny, solemn old man had been left in a blanket on her doorstep.

Her initial shock passed, Quinn brushed the back of her hand across the baby's wrinkled cheek and it cooed, hazy, unfocused eyes blinking open to gaze in her direction.

"You poor thing," Quinn murmured, debating for only an instant. The thing was so withered it was almost repulsive, but Quinn felt almost sick just imagining not taking it in.

"Quinn, what are you doing?" Noah asked, startled, as Quinn gathered the baby in her arms and straightened up, heading for the house.

"Well I wasn't very well going to leave him out on the step, was I?" she said indignantly, brushing past Noah and into the din that burst from the back door.

"Miss Quinn, Mrs. Hedford wet herself again!" Mrs. Phillips hollered from the top of the stairs and Quinn navigated through the wheelchairs and sofas on her way to her room.

"Start her a bath, I'll be right up!" Quinn called back, just as a few elderlies in the parlor started up a celebratory cheer, complete with piano and harmonies, and the baby in Quinn's arms squirmed in alarm.

"Quinn, are honestly considering keeping that thing?" Noah demanded, trailing behind her like a lost puppy.

"It's not a _thing, _Noah, it's a baby, and if the Lord intended for me to find him, then yes, I will be keeping him."

Quinn shouldered through her bedroom door and hesitated, looking around for a safe place to put the baby as Mrs. Phillips yelled her name again.

"Quinn, she won't get in the bath without you!"

"Lord have mercy," Quinn huffed, spinning around and pushing the baby into Noah's arms. "Just hold him for a minute, will you? I'll be right back."

Noah shied away, but it was either drop the baby or hold onto it as Quinn bustled away, and he chose the latter, cradling it gingerly as far away from his chest as he could. The baby made a contented noise, its ugly face stretching into a yawn, and Noah shifted from foot-to-foot, anxiously awaiting Quinn's return as the celebrations in the house continued full-swing.

* * *

Arms aching from helping Mrs. Hedford in and out of the tub, Quinn swept her hair back from her sweaty forehead and trotted down the stairs, about to go reclaim the baby from Noah when she saw the town doctor smiling and bidding the elderlies good night.

"Doctor Nolan!" Quinn took the last few stairs and a run, catching the doctor just as he reached the front door. A middle-aged man with kind eyes and an even kinder disposition, Dr. Nolan was a frequent visitor to the boarding house, where illness and death went hand-in-hand with the residents.

"Hello, Quinn, is everything alright?"

"Yes, Doctor, I'm sorry this is so ill-timed, but if you have a moment…?"

"Of course, what is it?"

Quinn beckoned the doctor down the hallway, to where Noah was waiting uncomfortably in her doorway. Noah greeted Dr. Nolan politely and Quinn apologized again for delaying his departure home.

"Really, it's no trouble," the doctor said dismissively, smiling. "What can I do for you?"

"It's a bit unusual, to be honest," Quinn said, easing the baby from Noah's arms.

"A lot unusual," Noah muttered, looking immediately chagrined when Quinn shushed him.

"He was left on the steps… I can't even begin to guess at what's wrong with him."

Dr. Nolan pulled a pair of spectacles out of his coat pocket and pushed them up the bridge of his nose, peering down at the sleeping baby.

"Heaven above," he murmured, tracing one of the wrinkles in the baby's face with a light finger. "I think I'd better have a closer look."

They backed into Quinn's tiny bedroom and Quinn placed the baby on her faded quilt, moving to stand beside Noah as the doctor bent to inspect the strange creature.

After a few minutes of careful examinations, Dr. Nolan re-bundled the now-squirming baby and removed his spectacles, running a hand through his hair.

"Well, I have an answer for you, though it's nothing I ever thought I would be saying about a newborn baby."

Quinn waited anxiously, hands folded under her chin, and Dr. Nolan gave a sort of bewildered laugh and said, "He seems to be suffering from old age."

"I beg pardon?" Noah said, and Quinn frowned, eyes flickering to the infant. He really did look like a tiny old man…

"His eyes are full of cataracts – he's nearly blind. It doesn't appear as though he can hear, his bones are brittle and his whole body is in a stage of deterioration. I'm sure you're familiar with the symptoms, caring for the residents here – as implausible as it seems, this child is in fact suffering from the ailments of an eighty-year-old man." Dr. Nolan concluded his diagnosis and tucked his spectacles back into his coat while Quinn struggled to wrap her brain around the concept. A quick glance at Noah confirmed that he wasn't having much success with it, either.

"Is he dying?" she asked softly, unable to tear her eyes away from the baby as her heart clenched a little in her chest.

"Of old age, yes. I've never in my life heard of such a thing."

Quinn moved forward and knelt beside the bed, cupping the newborn's bald head in her palm. "Where did you come from?" she murmured, still unable to believe that anyone would leave a child, a _human child _on a stranger's doorstep. Sometimes the cruelty of the world astonished Quinn, who had been raised to love thy neighbor as herself and had carried it with her into adulthood.

"Are you planning on keeping him, Quinn?" he questioned, watching her with a shadow of concern. She looked up at him, frowning slightly.

"Yes." She said, almost daring him to question her.

Dr. Nolan shifted uncertainly, burying his broad hands into the pockets of his coat.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked cautiously, and Noah made a small sound of agreement. "The house is so full as it is, will you be able to care for him as well as everyone else, and afford – ?"

"Where else is he going to go?" Quinn interjected sharply. The doctor fell silent, ducking his head slightly in shame. "You said he's dying, yes?" Dr. Nolan nodded. "Then he'll have a home here until he does."

* * *

Quinn carried the baby into the parlor, where the end-of-the-war celebrations had quieted slightly, punctuated by yawns and complaints of old bones.

"Listen up, please!" Quinn called, catching the attention of most of the elderlies. "Mr. Richards, that piano isn't going to last much longer if you keep banging on it like that!" There was a chorus of laughter in the sudden quiet and Mr. Richards grinned sheepishly and removed his gnarled hands from the ivory, shifting to face Quinn.

"Thank you. Now, we've got a visitor, and he'll be staying for as long as the Lord allows him to live. He'll be known as…" Quinn hesitated for a moment, gazing down at the wrinkled, unfortunate face. "Blaine," she continued, smiling a little. "His name is Blaine, and he's very sick, so you'll all treat him well, alright?"

Noah leaned against the far wall, still looking uncertain, but Quinn knew Blaine would have him swayed before the night ended. Noah always did have a soft heart.

The elderlies fussed over Blaine, passing him around and commenting on his ancient appearance, and Blaine gurgled at each new face, so similar to his despite the separating decades.

The night was finally quiet, and Quinn rested on her stomach, watching Blaine sleep in the cradle she'd fashioned out of one of her bureau drawers. His face was relaxed, loose wrinkles spelling out contentment. Quinn smiled fondly down at him; just a few hours, and he already had her heart clutched in his clawed little hand.

There was a knock on the door and Noah poked his head in, glancing down at Blaine.

"You're really set on this, aren't you?" he asked softly, face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through Quinn's window.

Quinn nodded, holding Noah's gaze. "I am."

Noah nodded, smiling slightly. "That's good. Well, I just wanted to say goodnight and –"

"Noah," Quinn interjected, sucking in a nervous breath. He fell silent, eyebrows rising questioningly.

"Stay with me?" she whispered, and his mouth fell slightly open, eyes flying wide. Quinn pressed her lips together, flushing and looking quickly down at the floor. The snap of her door closing startled her into glancing up, and she saw Noah smile before he removed his shoes and climbed onto the bed, capturing her lips in a long, lingering kiss.

She breathed out against his lips, pulling him to her and letting her hands travel up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers digging into his back as he pulled her leg up to hook around his hip. Their kisses deepened and Noah rolled slowly to the side, pulling Quinn up to straddle his waist. Their breath mingled, hot in the already humid air, and Quinn yanked Noah's shirt out from the waist of his pants, sliding her hands up his chest.

"In front of the baby?" Noah chuckled, fingers dancing over the buttons of her dress, and Quinn pressed her hand to his lips, casting a glance over at Blaine.

"He's sleeping."

Noah smiled and stretched up to plant a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses to her neck, nosing the fabric of her dress aside as she laughed, hands catching in his hair.

Blaine Anderson-Button, cocooned warm and content in his blankets, slept on.


	3. Chapter Two

Blaine Anderson-Button always knew he was different. It happened gradually, the knowing. He didn't wake up one morning and say, "Oh look, I'm different!" It was more of a slow build, the realization that he wasn't like the other little boys he sometimes saw running up and down the streets while he gazed longingly from his wheelchair, the knowing that he was more similar to the elderlies who lived with him than he was to those children. While they could run and jump and whoop and fall only to leap back up with nothing more than a skinned knee and a flashing smile, Blaine couldn't even walk. His body was strange, more limited, as if he were a puppet whose strings had gotten tangled.

Blaine would ask his mama why he was so young but looked so much older, why he was so _different, _in his croaking, scratchy voice that did nothing but remind him that he could spend as many hours as he wanted locked in his room, imagining that he could just rise from his chair and dart out to join the boys playing baseball just beyond his back porch. He could imagine, but it wouldn't make it _real. _He was just too _different. _

Mama Quinn always tried to tell him that he was wrong _(no, baby, you're not different, you're _special), comfort him and rub the aches and cramps out of his bones and he cried, begging for her to tell him what was wrong with him, why he'd ended up so strange, but she never had the answers Blaine wanted. She could never explain why his body was a prison to his young mind, could only stroke his cheek with her gentle, work-worn hands and say that only time and God would tell.

Mama Quinn talked a whole lot about time and God. She said God had plans for Blaine, that He'd had a purpose in mind when He brought Blaine to Quinn's doorstep, and Blaine would listen quietly and nod his head and fidget with the arms of his wheelchair, but he wouldn't really take it in. He knew his mama believed in God, but Blaine just wasn't so sure about the whole idea. God seemed like a funny thing to him, the way He would give back in peculiar ways that never seemed to make up for the things that He decided to take.

Why would God take away Mama's ability to have a baby? Blaine didn't know exactly what that meant, and he hadn't meant to listen through Quinn and Noah's closed door, but it was Quinn's crying that had caught his attention.

"My whole life I've just wanted to raise a family, Noah," Quinn whispered, voice choked with tears, and Blaine heard the low rumble of Noah's deep voice, murmuring something Blaine couldn't make out.

"You know I love Blaine," she replied, and Blaine froze, brittle fingers poised over the wheels of his chair. "But how long does he have, Noah? He wasn't even supposed to live this long – he's a miracle, and I love him like my own, but what's going to happen when he goes and we have no way…?"

Unable to listen any longer, Blaine wheeled slowly away from the door, heart twisting in the most uncomfortable way.

He rolled into the parlor and sat quietly, parading his toy soldiers across the coffee table. So he was dying? Was that what was wrong with him? Was that why Mama never answered his questions – because she didn't want to scare him? Blaine wasn't scared, exactly. He was actually just numb, wondering if this was just another one of his funny dreams.

Blaine scraped one of his solders across the wood towards the others, spluttering out gunshot sounds and throwing the soldiers down on the table as an imaginary grenade exploded, scattering them. One of the soldiers skidded across the table and thumped to the carpet and Blaine huffed out a sigh and leaned towards the floor, groping for the toy with a withered, aching hand. His reach fell just short and he made a small noise of distress, scooting his chair closer to the fallen solider. The elderlies in the room were oblivious to his plight, too absorbed in their gossip and jigsaw puzzles to notice Blaine. He stretched out, grunting a little as his body creaked in protest. He still couldn't reach. He wanted to scream.

Blaine didn't get it. Why did he have to be so _challenged, _so _useless? _He couldn't even pick up his toys because he couldn't stand, couldn't get out of his wheelchair because he'd fall and break his delicate bones. Blaine always tried not to hate things, because Mama Quinn always said that hate was too strong for one person to hold onto, but Blaine decided that he really, really hated his _chair _and his _bones _and his _sickness _and that _stupid soldier. _

He let out a strangled cry of frustration and slammed his fists down on the arms of his wheelchair, succeeding only in bruising his hands. He snuffled pitifully, glaring at the soldier, lying so innocently on the floor just out of his reach.

The hem of a familiar dress entered Blaine's blurred vision, accompanying a soft coo of comfort, and Quinn bent to pick up the soldier, pressing it into Blaine's throbbing hand.

"Don't cry, baby, it's alright," she murmured, gently removing Blaine's glasses to swipe away his tears with her thumb.

"Why am I so different, Mama?" he sniffed, grinding his palms into his eyes. He'd asked the same question so, so many times before he'd lost count, and he already knew what her answer would be, because it was always the same.

"Blaine, what makes you different makes you special," she said soothingly, kneeling beside his wheelchair, but Blaine didn't believe her, not after hearing what she had told Noah. Blaine wasn't special; he was sick, he was _dying. _He'd heard Quinn – he wasn't even supposed to be alive. He was just a strange boy who couldn't run and play, limited by his so easily-broken bones, and he was dying. Blaine was usually a happy boy and did his best to face everything with a smile, but dying? Blaine didn't want to die. He wanted so many things; he wanted to grow up, fall in love, have a happily ever after like those stories Quinn read him before bed each night.

"I want to walk, Mama," he mumbled, looking down at his knobby, useless knees because if he had to pick the one thing he wanted the most right now, it would be walking, throwing the chair away and never having to see it again.

Quinn nodded, kissing his forehead and tilting his chin up so she could look at him straight on. Her green eyes were so warm and loving that Blaine forgot for a moment that he was dying.

"Okay, baby. We'll get you to walk."

Blaine just half-smiled down at his lap, nodding as she got to her feet to assist one of the elderlies.

He didn't ask her if he really was supposed to die.

* * *

Healers scared Blaine. He'd been to several over the first few years of his life (before he knew he was expected to die), and they were always so _loud, _loud enough that they hurt even Blaine's ears. They always gripped his forehead, too, and shouted a lot about Jesus and the grace of God and Blaine never felt any different after he returned home, though Quinn swore up and down that he had more life in his eyes than before.

So Blaine wasn't exactly thrilled when, two days after Blaine had eavesdropped at her door, Quinn announced that they were going to a healing service.

"It's always worth trying, Blaine," Quinn said softly, smiling ever-so-slightly at the less-than-pleased expression on Blaine's face.

Mama Quinn was always unyielding in her faith, and Blaine wanted to believe, he really did, but he just couldn't shake the doubt that hovered over him like a raincloud.

If one person understood him, it was Noah. Noah always understood.

"Getting tired of having people yell about God in your face, huh, buddy?" he said lowly, crouching beside Blaine's chair after Quinn had left the room and smiling ruefully. Blaine sighed slightly and nodded, watching his toes wiggle in his thick socks.

"Well, it's what keeps her believing. She wants the best for you, she always has." Noah clapped Blaine gently on the knee. "Who knows – maybe this time it works."

Blaine bit his lip, forcing a smile and hesitating before asking, "Do you believe in God, Noah?" Noah hesitated, twisting his tongue between his teeth as he considered.

"I believe," he began slowly, pushing himself to his feet with a slight groan, "that religions are an acquired taste." He smiled crookedly, and this time Blaine's return grin was genuine.

* * *

Blaine was right. The new healer shouted a lot and touched Blaine's face every opportunity he got and praised God so loudly Blaine almost believed that God could hear it. He touched Quinn a lot too, while Noah watched anxiously from the side of the stage, pressing his hands against her stomach and talking a whole bunch about the miracle and blessing of life as the crowd cheered and shouted things like "praise" and "amen!"

Blaine watched the healer pace around the stage as the tall, stocky man waved his arms purposefully and clapped his hand to his chest. He was younger than most of the other healers Blaine had visited, though Blaine wasn't sure if that made him more or less wary of the situation. This one sure was a lot_ louder _than the others.

Finally, the noise died down slightly and the healer knelt before Blaine, eyes ablaze and sweat gathering on his dark brow. Blaine shifted uncomfortably, already sweating through his thin button-up and corduroys. The healer looked very determined, very confident, and more than a little terrifying.

"How old are you, son?" he asked, and Blaine relaxed a little at the kindness in the man's rumbling voice.

"Seven," he replied roughly. The crowd tittered and he glanced around, confused. "But I look a lot older," he added, and the healer pressed a hand to his heart and rose, calling out, "He's seven!" to the great entertainment of the service. Blaine cast a nervous glance over at Quinn, who now stood at Noah's side, one hand clutching his broad arm and the other at her throat. She nodded reassuringly at Blaine, smiling her most beautiful smile, and Blaine felt a little better. He might not believe in God, but he believed in Mama Quinn.

Suddenly the healer grasped Blaine's elbow in powerful hand, pulling him forward out of his chair. Blaine yelped and balked, trying to yank his arm free, but the healer was too strong.

"Rise up, boy!" he commanded, and Blaine's heart pounded in his chest, fear gathering around him in a suffocating cloud, but after catching a nod from Quinn out of the corner of his eye, Blaine sucked in a deep breath and pushed himself upright, obeying the healer's words. His frail arms trembled with the effort and, startled as the crowd sucked in a collective, gasping breath, Blaine faltered, teetering forward and crashing to the hardwood floor of the stage in a tangle of pointy elbows and knobby knees.

He heard everyone cry out and couldn't help a whimper of his own at the pain that slammed into every edge of him like an automobile. He laid face down, gasping through tears and fumbling for the glasses that dangled off one ear, fragmenting his vision. The noise of all the people was a dull roar in his head, waves crashing against his ears, and Blaine choked back a pitiful cry.

"Rise!" the healer bellowed, and Blaine wanted to shout at him that he _couldn't _because he was too weak and too broken and too _sick, _but he still couldn't catch his breath and he wondered if his ribcage had collapsed in on itself. The healer kept yelling and stomping his feet and the service wouldn't stop shrieking and Blaine almost started crying, but if he just continued to lay there like a stranded fish then they wouldn't _stop. _So he gritted his teeth, arranging his arms underneath him, and pushed up as hard as he could, onto knees that wobbled and screamed in protest.

"Rise up, young man, shake the devil from your back!" the healer bawled, and Blaine honestly just wanted him to _shut up. _Up and up Blaine struggled, finally balancing dangerously on his own two feet, gasping for breath and hardly daring to believe that this was really happening.

The crowd gathered in the sweltering tent screamed and cheered, and Blaine shuffled one foot forward, gasping with the effort, feeling his unused muscles uncoil and tighten for the first time, propelling him forward, _walking. _He was stepping and moving and _walking_, one foot in front of the other, shaky and tottering, but he could do it – he _was_ doing it!

Familiar voices cried out his name from the midst of the cacophony around him, and Blaine looked up to see Quinn and Noah's arms outstretched for him, their faces split apart and lit by overjoyed smiles, and Blaine moved forward, one small, gnarled foot at a time, until he fell into his family's waiting arms. They were both crying and pressing kisses to his scruffy head, clutching him close and unbearably warm to their chests while the crowd rejoiced and the healer had to sit down heavily and have someone run to fetch him water.

Blaine had never felt more normal.

* * *

Just as he had wanted, Blaine never saw the chair again.

Well, that was not exactly true – it had been gifted to one of the more fragile elderlies boarding with them, but to Blaine, it was entirely different, seeing it with her, because it wasn't _his. _Not anymore.

Noah fashioned him a pair of crutches that attached to Blaine's wrists and supported the weight of his upper body, and Blaine hobbled around the house every second the sun still shone, unwilling to sit any longer than he had to, after being confined to the wheelchair for so many years.

Ultimately, it left him with sore, bruised wrists and swollen ankles that radiated down into his feet that Quinn had to help him soak and rub each night, but Blaine never once complained. For the first time in his life, he could reply on just himself, could do something without the aid of a grown-up. Freedom tasted so sweet, and Blaine had never felt happier.

It was a myriad of sensations, really, all ones that Blaine had never experienced; pride, joy, confidence. For the first time in his young (but also old, in the switch of things) life, Blaine did not resent the body and card he had been dealt. Blaine Anderson-Button was, for all intents and purposes, content.

Content, but also curious. Content was the home around him, Quinn's soft smile, his toy soldiers in a line across his shelf. Content was steps all by himself down the hallway when he needed a drink from the bathroom in the middle of the night, the warmth of his blanket around his sensitive skin.

Curious was something else entirely. It blew in with the breeze from the harbor that tasted so strongly of salt, rumbled with the automobiles a few streets over, driving someplace new, someplace other than the bustling town of New Orleans that was home to Blaine. He was content, yes, but curiosity took hold of him in the weeks after his healing, and he desired to explore outside of the safe box he had grown up in. Blaine, though he was not sure exactly what the word mean, wanted _adventure. _

So yes, Blaine was curious. And adventure came in the form of a middle-aged man named William Schuster, who burst into the house like a thunderclap following the death of Mrs. Pond, his great-aunt or some similar relation. Mr. Schuster whirled in with more bags than Benjamin could count and a charming smile that accentuated the dimple in his chin. Quinn murmured to Noah over Blaine's head that the loud-spoken man was not their usual kind of boarder, and Blaine could clearly see why.

Mr. Schuster's curly hair was all auburn, not a touch of gray, his posture straight and his gait strong. He laughed too loudly and spoke in big words that Blaine learned after a few days often strung together to make rambling monologues that seemed to go nowhere. All the same, Blaine shyly admired the man's energy and watched him from across the parlor as he astonished the elderlies with stories about his travels around the world that Blaine could scarcely believe. Mr. Schuster definitely had adventures, and Blaine was dying to know more.

Blaine edged into the dining room, where Mrs. Schuster regaled the elderlies with tales of his Broadway days _(April Rhodes, have you heard of her? I performed alongside her, I really did, she's a delight to work with, such a sweet girl) _and hobbled over to where Quinn was unloading plates and silverware from the ornate cabinet against the wall.

"What's he like?" Blaine asked quietly, helping Quinn gather a fistful of cutlery. Quinn glanced over at Mr. Schuster, who was currently giving the elderlies an impromptu musical number from his Broadway show. Quinn laughed a little, twirling a lock of her hair back into her bun.

"Oh him? He – Noah, are those sandwiches ready?" She waited until Noah had affirmed that _yes, the sandwiches are ready, don't strain yourself Lady Fabray_ and rolled her eyes fondly before continuing. "He seems interesting, to say the least."

Blaine watched Mr. Schuster throw his head back in a high note that rang in his ears for good seconds afterwards and the elderlies applauded, making sounds of delight and admiration. Quinn glanced down at him and back at Mr. Schuster, humming knowingly.

"Go ahead and talk to him, I know you're just bursting to hear all of his stories. But, listen –" she grabbed Blaine's shoulder and tilted his chin up so she could meet his eyes, hazel-green and warm just like they always were. "You be careful now, alright? You never know if all those stories of his are true of if he's just out of his mind."

Blaine didn't think Mr. Schuster was out of his mind. It seemed to him like the man just had a lot of stories to tell.

Finally, after lunch had been served and Quinn and Noah bustled the elderlies into the parlor for their card games, Blaine plucked up the courage and limped onto the porch, where Mr. Schuster was staring out into the yard, smoking a cigar with glazed, pensive eyes. He turned abruptly when Blaine's crutches knocked against the wood floor and flashed him a bright smile.

"Ah, hello!" he said brightly, smoke curling off his lips. "It's Blaine, right?"

Blaine nodded shyly. "Yes, sir."

Mr. Schuster strode briskly across the room, extending a strong hand for Blaine to shake. "I'm William Schuster, but you can call me Mr. Schue. Everyone does."

Blaine nodded, smiling and shifting his weight to one of his crutches so he could shake Mr. Schue's hand.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mr. Schue sprawled himself comfortably onto the flowered couch, arm draped over the length of it, while Blaine moved forward to perch on the edge of the cushion.

"I was wondering… if you could tell me more of your stories?" Blaine asked shyly. Mr. Schue looked delighted.

"Of course! But first – tell me yours. Everyone's told me so much about you but no one bothered to ask you if you'd like to explain it for yourself."

Blaine came up short, startled. Did he have a story? He'd never really considered it. He was always just the boy who grew up in the wrong direction; not much by way of a fairytale.

"I don't… I don't really have one," he mumbled, busying himself with balancing his crutches between his knees. Mr. Schue made an indignant noise in the back of his throat.

"Everybody has a story, Blaine. Everyone's got a beginning and an end, and the rest is a whole lot of middle – that's what your story is."

Blaine blinked. He'd never thought about it like that, but Mr. Schue's words made sense.

"I've only just sort of begun," he admitted, making the metal on his crutches clink together in the pause between his words. "I don't have a lot to put in the middle yet."

Mr. Schue grinned. "Well, how about we fix that?" Blaine looked up, confused, and Mr. Schue looked right back, seeming to consider. "Come on. I'll show you around. You can't hope to write your story if all you see are the walls of this house."

Mr. Schue got to his feet and offered Blaine his hand. Blaine hesitated, adjusting his crutches. "I'm not really supposed to…"

Mr. Schue waited. Blaine took a deep breath and pulled himself up. "I guess it would be okay."

Mr. Schue grinned at him, all white teeth and crinkled eyes. "That's the spirit."

* * *

Neither Quinn nor Noah had any idea that Blaine had left the house, which gave him a strange mix of guilt and exhilaration that thrummed all the way down to his toes. The warm air wafted against his cheeks, humidity heavy in his lungs, and Blaine felt _alive, _so alive and thriving and _living, _and he had only just set foot out of the house. He stared around him, wishing his head could swivel in all directions so he could take in all the sights, the oddities of New Orleans that he was just now seeing for the first time. Women with bright lipstick smiled politely at him, hips sashaying as they strode down the street, arms linked with tall, handsome men whose eyes skirted right over Blaine's head, and street vendors announced their wares in loud, musical voices. The air was riding with scents Blaine couldn't even begin to name; a sweet, heavy smell wafted from the double-story building to his right _(ba-ker-y _Blaine sounded out in his head) and a scent with a bitter tang that settled on the back of his tongue poured with smoke from the backs of automobiles as they trundled down the road, horns blaring at the occasional wandering pedestrian.

Blaine was overwhelmed and aching for more at the same time, caught breathless and bursting with the _newness _of it all. After the familiar patterns in the wallpaper that he'd traced brittle fingers over time and again, the cracks in the ceiling he'd memorized on nights when Noah slept in Quinn's room and Blaine had to sleep by the fireplace, the sighs and hums that filled the house to the brim as the elderlies slept, this, outdoors, the sights and smells – for Blaine, it was like being born again.

"Keep up, son!" Mr. Schue laughed over his shoulder, and Blaine hastened to catch up to him, nearly falling flat over his crutches in his excitement.

They walked for what felt like hours, and Mr. Schue bought Blaine a bubbly drink that he called _Coca Cola _and that burned up the back of Blaine's throat. As promised, after asking Blaine a few questions about his "condition" that Blaine answered as best he could _(I was born different, backwards, I guess. I'm supposed to die soon _– _Well you shouldn't have that kind of outlook on it, Blaine, negativity doesn't get you anywhere)_, Mr. Schue told Blaine his stories. Oh, did he ever.

"…and I thought I was going to be a father," Mr. Schue said pensively, nursing his drink and re-crossing his legs. They sat at a bench overlooking a duck pond swimming with algae, and Blaine was attentive, hanging into Mr. Schue's every word, his Coca Cola long forgotten.

"What happened?" Blaine asked eagerly, and Mr. Schue smiled wanly.

"She faked it. The whole damn thing." He shook his head, eyes lifting to gaze at the cloudless sky. "There was never a pregnancy, or a baby. She pretended there was so I wouldn't leave her. Needless to say, that was the final straw." He laughed, almost casually, and finished off his Cola. Suddenly aware his own bottle was still clutched warm in his hand, Blaine took another sip, still not used to the burn of carbonation in his nose.

"That was a while ago, though. We had many good years together, but I guess things never last, huh?" Mr. Schue leaned back against the bench and skipped his bottlecap across the pond, upsetting a couple crass-looking ducks. "I moved out, went off to Broadway and never looked back. Until now, that is," he amended, and Blaine jumped at the pause.

"How come?" Mr. Schue shrugged, a small smile curling his lips.

"Death," he said, and Blaine frowned a little. "I was living so fast I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to my aunt, and I realized I haven't gotten many chances to do anything for anyone but myself the past few years. I thought it was time I slow down a little."

Blaine pondered that as he sipped the warm remnants of his Cola. It seemed funny, that he was in such a hurry to speed up while Mr. Schue just wanted to slow down. Blaine just wanted to see everything and learn new things and live as much as he could in the indeterminable amount of time he had left, and it was so strange to him that a person would get tired of that, of exploring and having adventures out there in the world. Was there a point where the things you saw and experienced stopped being new? When all you had left to do was wait to die? Perhaps that was why all the elderlies in the house treated the sunrise like a miracle, rejoiced at all these small things that Blaine found utterly inconsequential, because that was all they had left to do.

Huh. Maybe he should try to enjoy the little things more often.

They sat in companionable silence for a while longer, and Blaine did his best to notice all the small things that he could consider miracles, but he kept getting distracted by the ducks quaking and pecking at each-other, and how the sun reflected right off Mr. Schue's head of curly hair. Finally, after the carbonation had long since fizzled out of their Colas and the sun was beginning to slant towards the horizon, light fading to a warm yellow, Mr. Schue got to his feet and stretched, joints popping audibly.

"It's getting late – we should probably head back. Don't want to upset your mama." Blaine nodded, reluctant to end what had become the most interesting day of his life, but he followed behind Mr. Schue, a little slower now that his feet and wrists had started to ache from all the walking.

Mr. Schue was telling Blaine about this beautiful girl he'd seen boarding the street car the other day, when he'd first arrived in New Orleans, and Blaine was listening avidly, wondering what Mr. Schue meant by "I think she's a little crazy" when Mr. Schue suddenly stopped short, nearly getting clipped by an automobile.

"That's her," he said softly, staring across the street. Blaine shuffled to the side to peer around Mr. Schue's elbow and saw a slender, red-headed woman standing stiffly outside the market, elbows hugged tight to her chest. She was beautiful, Blaine supposed, but he didn't really have anything to compare with, so he didn't say anything. Mr. Schue shifted his weight, glancing around a couple times before he whirled back to Blaine.

"I've got to introduce myself," he said desperately, eyes a little crazed. "I keep seeing her around, this can't just be coincidence." He hesitated again, drumming his fingers against his thigh, and the red-haired lady began to walk briskly down the street, avoiding contact with the people milling the opposite way. "You can find your own way home, right?"

Blaine looked around at the unfamiliar streets, uncertain, but he didn't want to disappoint this man who had finally showed him what it meant to experience living, and so Blaine nodded, said "Of course, sir," and watched Mr. Schue take off across the street in pursuit of the lady, calling a relieved, "I'll see you later, Blaine!" over his shoulder, and Blaine had nothing else to do but walk.

So Blaine walked. He walked until his wrists bled and the blood made his crutches slippery, until he thought his feet would give out and he'd have to sleep right there on the dirty sidewalk. The sun had set, spilling orange onto the hem of the navy blue sky, and Blaine was scared. He'd never been out at night before, and he'd never been left to fend for himself like this. The streets all looked the same to him, every porch light identical to the one burning at Mama Quinn's door, and the people that passed him on the sidewalk seemed to get more and more menacing as the night grew darker.

But Blaine refused to let himself cry. If he was big enough to drink Coca Colas with Mr. Schue and hear Mr. Schue's grown-up stories, then he was too big to cry. He would find his way home, he _would. _It was part of the adventure, of _his _adventure. He'd wanted one for so long, he wasn't going to ruin it with crying.

All the same, his feet were so swollen he could barely put weight on them when his house loomed out of the darkness, and Blaine all-but staggered with relief as he drug himself up to the porch steps. He rattled the locked doorknob with a shaky hand and the door whipped open, startling him, to reveal a livid Quinn.

"Where in God's _name _have you _been_?" she hissed, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and yanking him into the house. "Have you any idea how worried I've been? I sent Noah out to look for you, I thought you'd gotten hit and were lying maimed in the road somewhere –" Her angry words cut off with a choked huff, and Blaine immediately felt awful. He hated when Mama Quinn cried.

"I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered, and Quinn put a hand to her forehead, guiding him down the hall and into her bathroom, murmuring angry words under her breath that Blaine couldn't quite catch.

"…out of my mind, Blaine…" She tutted over the bloody state of his hands and ran hot water in the sink, wiping her teary eyes on her apron before rubbing Blaine's wrists under the soothing water.

"Don't you dare do that again, you hear?" she said sharply, and Blaine nodded immediately, edging closer to tuck his head under her chin. She let out a sigh, pressing a forceful kiss to the top of his bald head and rolling her shoulders. "Alright, let's get you sorted out."

Swollen feet, bloody wrists, and a furious mama aside, it had been the best day of Blaine's life.


	4. Chapter Three

Seasons changed, and so did Blaine.

He could feel it in him, the growing and the changing, the strengthening of bones and muscle inside his body. He could almost watch the wrinkles recede just slightly, watch the curve of his spine in the mirror as it straightened. He felt the energy inside him, kicking like a living thing, banishing the aches and pains that morning always brought, leaving him alert and thriving with vigor.

The elderlies couldn't believe it. Blaine had come to them on death's door and he seemed to have skipped cheerily back into life without a care. Mama Quinn, of course, told him she knew all along he was special, petting his head and pinching his leathery cheek.

Blaine still felt different, but now different had a new name: backwards. Blaine grew up backwards, aged backwards; he was older but younger at the same time, bones stronger and mind sharper. It was strange, and it confused him if he paused to think about it for too long. He had never even heard fairytales about someone else like him – did that mean he was the only person who had ever been born this way? He didn't bother asking Quinn funny questions like that anymore – he knew by now that he had been left in a bundle on the porch steps and that Quinn and Noah knew no more about his condition or where he had come from than he did.

But Blaine was happy. If he had to pick one little word out of the hundreds and thousands and millions at his fingertips, that would be it. _Happy. _He had long ago stopped worrying about dying – he figured if he was really meant to die, he would have already. And anyways, everybody died, one way or another. Life was full of fears and worries that could hunt you down and plague you until you died from worrying about dying, and Blaine did not intend for that to be his fate. He loved living too much. He loved the smell of Noah's coffee, drifting through the cracks in the floor every morning, he loved the gentle pressure of Quinn's fingers on his head when she cut his hair _(I swear to God, Blaine, you have more hair on your head each morning than you did the night before). _He loved the creak and sigh of the old house in the middle of the night, and he loved that sleepy feeling of being cold and pulling the blankets up to his chin and registering the warmth before sleep carried him off again.  
Blaine loved.

He particularly loved when they threw parties, and Quinn and Noah would slave away in the kitchen all morning preparing food (Blaine also loved when Noah would hit Quinn with flour, powdering her face with it, and then she would crack an egg on the top of his head and then he would kiss her with yolk dripping down his nose when they didn't think Blaine was looking) and some of the more able-bodied elderlies would drag tables to the lawn and dress them up all fancy, like they did at funerals, but Blaine liked this way much better. The house would be cleaned – swept, dusted, beds made and chairs aligned, even though the party would be limited to the downstairs and outside. Blaine's favorite part of parties was watching the cars roll up, hoods sparkling in the sunlight, and see the guests and relatives emerge, all shades and sizes, ages and agilities. Then Quinn would holler for Blaine to come be social, and he would pick up his cane (his crutches had become full-time residents in the coat closet ages ago) and join Quinn to smile and shake hands with all the new faces.

Blaine wasn't too great at remembering faces yet, but there was one particular group of faces he never forgot.

"Blaine, this is our friend Burt Hummel," Quinn introduced Blaine to a medium-sized man with a bald head to rival Blaine's and who smiled kindly at Blaine, squinting against the sun. "He's a political speaker that we're all very fond of, and he's bringing his mother to stay here with us."

Blaine greeted Burt and Burt's mother politely, _good to meet you sir and ma'am, how do you do, _and Burt shook Blaine's hand, grasp firm but his crinkled eyes gentle.

"It's very nice to meet you, Blaine, Quinn and Noah have told me some very good things about you."

"Thank you, sir," Blaine said, blushing slightly. He liked Burt already – the man had a very homely disposition and kind eyes, complete a stomach that jutted just slightly over the waistband of his slacks that Blaine thought added to Burt's personality.

"Everyone, this is my mother, Abigail." Burt urged his mother forward, a straight-backed, wrinkled creature with eyes that burned with life. Quinn gushed over how young Abigail looked and the old woman waved her off, cheeks coloring in pleasure, while Burt and Noah began to discuss automobiles and Blaine fidgeted, losing interest in the conversations and glancing longingly at the pitcher of lemonade on the porch.

"And just look at you!" Abigail exclaimed suddenly, jostling Blaine from his wistful staring and grasping him by the shoulder, white hair bobbing around her chin as she appraised him. "You look so healthy for your age! Goodness gracious, you take good care of your guests, Miss Quinn!"

"Yes, well, we do what we can," Quinn laughed, and Blaine got the impression that, while Burt seemed to be aware of Blaine's condition, Abigail was not. He smiled and blushed at Abigail and cut his eyes up at Quinn, who just smiled at him and squeezed his shoulders before pulling Noah away from his animated conversation with Burt and instructing him to help Abigail bring her bags inside. Blaine resumed staring at the lemonade, wondering if he squinted hard enough it would just rise into the air and float into his hands.

"Papa, Papa look at me!" Blaine was distracted from the lemonade for a second time, disconcerted by the high, clear voice that echoed above the low, gravelly tones of the elderlies. He twisted his head around to see a little boy turn a cartwheel on the lawn, thin arms and legs flying in a pinwheel before he landed upright. Blaine could see the proud grin on the boy's face from all the way across the yard.

"Very nice, kiddo! Come on over and say hello," Burt called, rolling his eyes fondly at Quinn. "We're in the energetic stage."

"I don't think we've quite reached that point," Quinn laughed, resting a hand briefly on the top of Blaine's head, but Blaine just stared as the little boy barreled over, too-big sweater trailing behind him like a cape as he ran, skidding none-too-gracefully to a stop beside Burt.

"Hello," he chirped, a little out of breath. His cheeks were flushed with pink, a sharp contrast to his pale skin, and his blue-green eyes sparkled like the jewels on Mama Quinn's dressed that she sometimes let him look at if he swore to be careful.

Blaine didn't quite know how to describe the boy, and he didn't think this was really the right was to put it, but he was… _pretty. _

Mama Quinn murmured something in his ear about being polite, and Blaine stepped forward, holding out his hand like Noah had taught him. "My name's Blaine." The boy looked him up and down, thin eyebrows rising, before he smiled a little and shook Blaine's hand.

"Kurt," he said shyly, tongue hitting the roof of his mouth to sharply accentuate the _T. _

"It's nice to meet you, Kurt," Quinn said warmly from over Blaine's head, and Kurt waved delicately at her before twirling on his toes to hide behind Burt's legs.

"Oh come on, buddy," Burt chuckled, shaking his leg to loosen Kurt's grip. "You've never been shy once in your life, you're really gonna start now?"

Those pretty – _no, beautiful, _Blaine decided – eyes peeked out from behind Burt's hip and squinted at Blaine, who wasn't sure what to do under the sudden scrutiny of Kurt's gaze.

Burt finally succeeded in shaking Kurt off, right as Blaine started to get uncomfortable just staring at Kurt like that, at Kurt huffed out a sharp sigh and promptly whirled away, darting to shove his nose into the flowerbeds by the porch.

"He seems like a handful," Quinn commented, not unkindly, and Burt guffawed, running his hand over his head.

"You have no idea." He sobered suddenly, his voice taking on a rough note. "His mother died this past year, and it's been… tough."

Blaine glanced away from Kurt, into the overwhelming sadness in Burt's eyes. More death. It was as familiar as the back of Blaine's hand by now, people around him dying. People came and people went, and that was the way of things, but news of it never failed to make Blaine a little quivery in his stomach.

Quinn murmured her condolences and Burt shrugged, saying something that Blaine didn't quite catch, lost in his thoughts as he was. Kurt's mama had died? Blaine couldn't even image living in a world without Mama Quinn. He felt awful for Kurt, who was currently on his stomach with his face an inch away from a rosebush. He seemed so happy for a little boy without a mama. So happy and so… pretty. Now that Blaine had settled on the description, he couldn't help noticing it.

Kurt was _pretty, _his hair a light, silky brown that shimmered under the bright sunlight, and his face was made up pink cheeks and bright, smiling lips. And those eyes – Blaine had honestly never seen anything more beautiful before. Kurt reminded Blaine of a porcelain doll, like the ones Mrs. Hilshire kept on her dresser, gathering dust.

Blaine was a little unnerved. Wasn't he supposed to think that girls were pretty? Like how Noah always murmured to Quinn that she was beautiful before kissing her cheek long enough that it turned pink? Blaine had never heard of a boy calling another boy pretty before. It seemed to him like it might not be a good thing, like "pretty" was a word that should only be used to describe girls. That made Blaine kind of sad.

In any case, Blaine knew he had to be careful, whether it was boys or girls he deemed pretty. Quinn was constantly telling him, now that he was old enough to grasp the concept, that he did not look young like he actually was. Blaine knew this, obviously, he looked in the mirror every morning like everyone else did, and he understood that people did not see him as a little boy. He had always fit in with the elderlies more than he had with the children that played hopscotch in the street. Blaine knew he couldn't just tell Kurt he was pretty, even if he had been a girl.

The conversation turned to dinner, and Blaine finally got his glass of lemonade when he sat down at one of the tables in the piano room, waiting for the food to be served. He sipped happily at his glass while Quinn and Noah directed the guests and elderlies to their seats, tapping the heel of his shoe against the leg of his chair. Mr. Schue arrived right before the dinner bell, accompanied by the red-haired lady from a few months ago, and they seated themselves at Blaine's table after Mr. Schue grabbed Blaine in a giant hug. Blaine watched with interest as the lady – Mr. Schue introduced her as Emma – surreptitiously scrubbed her silverware on her napkin before straightening her dishes to a uniform precision and folding her hands in her lap.

"Hi, Blaine!" a high voice called, and Blaine turned from Emma to see Kurt skirting around all the wheelchairs and tables to join Blaine at the table, biting his lip shyly as he came to a halt.

"Hi, Kurt," Blaine replied, unable to hold back the smile that tugged on his lips. Burt and Abigail pulled out chairs as well, Burt helping Abigail into her seat despite her squawking and batting at his hands, and Kurt rolled his eyes, leaning towards Blaine conspiratorially as he clambered onto his own chair.

"She says she doesn't need help, but I've seen her fall right off her chair," he stage-whispered, and Blaine stuffed his face into his lemonade glass to stifle a giggle.

"Can we have your attention, everyone, please!" Quinn's gentle voice called out over the low chatter and everyone turned, necks craning to see what was going on. Blaine peered over Kurt's head to see Quinn standing nervously in the kitchen archway, smoothing down her apron, and Noah came up behind her, hands squeezing reassuringly at her shoulders. His squinty smile was visible even from across the room.

Quinn glanced back at Noah, who nodded, and she took in a breath, letting out a sharp laugh before she said, "The Lord has answered our prayers!" There was an eruption of low noise; happy murmurs, astonished gasps, a smattering of claps. Blaine looked around, smiling and applauding as well, but he leaned in to Kurt, whispering, "What does that mean, answered their prayers?"

Kurt looked at him funny, like he had something stuck to his nose and no one had bothered to tell him. "She's gonna have a baby, silly."

Blaine's smile slipped as his world did. It _was _silly of him, really, to think that only he had been healed. Of course Mama Quinn would be _able _to have a baby now, Blaine had figured that much. He just didn't think it would actually _happen. _

The room felt too small and too loud as dinner was served and Quinn and Noah moved around the room, accepting congratulations and words of advice from the elderlies, and Blaine just watched, this funny, twisty feeling settling in the bottom of his stomach.

A baby? What would happen now? Quinn wouldn't forget about him, would she? Blaine's heart fluttered and he accidentally dropped his fork on to his plate with a sharp clatter, earning another funny look from Kurt. Quinn's eyes met his from across the room, the joy on her face burning down to the smallness Blaine was feeling, before someone pulled her attention away and Blaine was left staring down into the glass of lemonade he no longer wanted to drink.

Blaine slept alone that night, up in the tiny spare room that let in drafts but didn't seem to be able to let them back out, so Blaine curled himself into a stiff knot under the blankets, staring through the window at the velvet sky. Stars pierced through the darkness, twinkling brightly against the glass of Blaine's window, and he watched them, pulling the blanket more tightly up to his chin. Blaine had always wondered how stars had gotten up there in the first place – he rather liked the idea of someone slingshotting them out into orbit, one at a time for hundreds of years, but Blaine also knew that idea was childish.

Was he childish for feeling so hurt by Quinn's news? For feeling like his whole world was being slowly pulled from his grasp, and he was too weak to hold on tighter? He was afraid – so, so afraid – that Quinn and Noah would not want him anymore, that they would be enraptured by their new miracle, their new child, and they would forget all about Blaine. He knew – at least, he _thought _he knew – that they wouldn't, because they were his parents, and they loved him, but the doubt lingered, a rough edge to his dreams as he drifted off.

Despite his uncertainties, Blaine thrived. He took a great liking to Abigail, Kurt's grandmother, who seemed to find a sense of camaraderie with Blaine. She talked to him like an adult, often in words he didn't quite understand, but Blaine liked feeling like an adult around her. He learned from Abigail's vocabulary, often looking up the big words in Noah's thick dictionary so he could better understand them, and she would spell them out for him as he practiced his shaky penmanship. She called it chickenscratch, but Blaine didn't mind because the word always made him laugh.

Abigail played piano, and Blaine would often sit quietly at her side as she played, beautiful, haunting melodies pouring from beneath her fingers, and Blaine would wonder at the simplicity of it, how just wood and coiled metal could make something so utterly lovely. Abigail would guide his stumbling fingers over the ivory, his notes clunky and jumbled, but he quickly got the hang of the rhythms and soon enough he could make it through an entire tune without any help. She praised him every day, and if Blaine had feathers, they would be ruffled in pride.

Blaine adored Abigail and the days he spent with her, but his favorite days were when Kurt came to visit.

Kurt was like a burst of sunshine to Blaine's day, a bright, exuberant, carefully-worded light that spun through the dim house, and Blaine could only follow dumbly in his wake. He loved Kurt's laugh, a high, excited cacophony of bells; he loved Kurt's eyes, stained glass and seafoam. He loved how Kurt talked to him like an old friend, not some odd stranger who was friends with his grandmother. Kurt made Blaine feel as normal as anyone else.

But then there were those times when the light would glint just right off Kurt's hair, or he would glance up at Blaine through his thick lashes, and Blaine would be overwhelmed by that _feeling_, the one that caught in his throat and stole the air right out of his lungs. Kurt was pretty, Kurt was _beautiful, _but Blaine wasn't supposed to think that, and sometimes the ache of knowing that would build in Blaine's chest until he could hardly stand it.

Abigail would read to Kurt and Blaine when Kurt visited, bedtime stories when Kurt's hair was still wet from the shower and Blaine was warm and cozy in his striped pajamas, every night, once, twice, three times until they begged for more even though their eyes drooped with exhaustion. Blaine would fall asleep warm and content in his bed, images from the book, grandfather clocks with kangaroo legs and owls who chimed, scampering through his dreams.

"Blaine, Blaine, wake up!" Blaine squeaked a little in surprise, recoiling from the voice in his ear and fumbling for his glasses. A small shape bloomed out of the darkness, hair sticking on end, eyes luminous with moonlight.

"Kurt?" Blaine whispered, blinking away the sleep that clung heavy in his eyes.

"Of course it's me, who else would it be?" Kurt latched onto Blaine's pajama sleeve and tugged. "I wanna show you something."

"I'm not really supposed to wander around the house at night," Blaine said hesitantly, and Kurt's eyes rolled, flashing the whites before the blue returned, skeptical.

"Are you chicken?" he asked slyly, and Blaine immediately threw the covers back, the floor chilly as it met his bare feet. Kurt beamed.

Their cold feet creaked along the floorboards, toes pointed and breath bated as they made their way downstairs, stretching over the step that always creaked.

"Come on, slowpoke!" Kurt hissed, taking the last two stairs in a leap and scampering lightly into the living room, ushering Blaine along. Blaine limped after him as quickly as he could, joints stiff, and Kurt pulled up the edge of a lumpy blanket fort that draped over the couches and end tables, grin wide and bright in the darkness.

"Did you make this?" Blaine asked in a hushed voice. Kurt nodded, puffing with pride. He ducked under the blanket, bare feet kicking as he wriggled inside. Blaine followed after a moment's hesitation, bending gingerly and shuffling into the small, humid space. Kurt's eyes glinted at him as Blaine settled himself to the carpet and Kurt pressed a book of matches into Blaine's hand. Kurt's fingers were cold against Blaine's and Blaine lit the single candle Kurt offered after only a second of pause.

Light flared up, flames dancing, casting blurred shadows onto the lines and creases of the sheet. Kurt smiled and wedged the candle into the metal candlestick, patterns of light reflecting off his teeth. They were silent for several long, heavy seconds, just watching each-other over the wavering candle, the only sounds the inhale and exhale of their breath and the house around them.

Finally, Kurt spoke, just a whisper. "I'll tell you a secret if you tell me one?"

Blaine didn't think he had many secrets to tell, but he nodded anyway. He felt safe under the drape of blankets, the warmth of the candle and Kurt's eyes.

"My mama died a while ago, and my papa cries a lot," Kurt said softly, throat clenching around a rough swallow. "He thinks I don't know, but his eyes get so puffy and red from it." Kurt fidgeted with the hem of his pajama shirt before he looked up, jerking his chin at Blaine. "Your turn."

Blaine bit his lip, watching rivulets of wax run down the sides of the candle. He didn't think anything he said would be able to compare to Kurt's secret, but Kurt was waiting, legs folded and hands clasped patiently in his lap.

"I'm not as old as I look," Blaine said finally, and Kurt nodded solemnly.

"I thought so." He scooted forward, hand rising into the space above the candle. "Can I…?" Blaine's tender, inexperienced heart fluttered a little.

"Sure," he whispered, eyes flickering down as Kurt's small fingers traced over the lines in Blaine's face, gently and barely there, like the whisper of Blaine's expected death behind a closed door, the baby growing in Quinn's belly, the settling of the house. Blaine looked up, watching Kurt as Kurt's eyes roamed over his face, so intently that Blaine could almost feel the weight of Kurt's gaze more than he could feel his fingers.

"You don't seem old, like my grandma," Kurt murmured, dropping his hand to his lap and cocking his head to the side. "Are you sick?"

Blaine shrugged, Kurt's touch still burning against his cheek. "I heard Mama Quinn telling Noah that I was supposed to die soon, but I'm still here."

A quirky grin cracked Kurt's face and he rested his chin in his palm, the shadows making his hair look shades darker. "You're odd," he said softly, and Blaine smiled shyly, ducking his head to stare at his chilly feet.

"I, um, I think you're really pretty, Kurt." His words all stumbled into each-other and he instantly felt foolish. He shouldn't have said that – Mama Quinn hadn't told him to be careful for nothing. Oh, he was so stupid, always ruining everything –

"Really?" Kurt's voice was surprised, and Blaine peeked up to see Kurt smiling. He nodded jerkily. "Thanks," Kurt whispered, and he tucked his knee under his chin, watching Blaine with the traces of his smile still lingering in the lines of his cheeks.

The candle flickered between them and shadows of dragons breathed fire on the sheet above their heads, and they stayed there, voices hushed with the secrecy of their hideaway, until the wax swallowed up the light and Kurt's eyes became just pools of navy in the thick darkness.

Blaine wished they could stay there all night.


	5. Chapter Four

The sea called to Blaine. He didn't know if it was the rhythmic beat of the waves against the boardwalk, the crisp, salty smell of the water that _tanged _just so on the back of Blaine's tongue, or the hum of the boats, moving closer, further, and away, but Blaine always wanted to be closer.

Quinn finally let him go town to the harbor in the mornings to watch the dawn break over the rippling water with Mr. Davis, who didn't do very much but stare out to sea and complain about his stiff knee. Blaine could watch the pulse and ebb of the currents all day, content to just breathe the salt air and listen to the life of the harbor.

It was a warm, breezy day and the old men Blaine sat with were all clinging to their wide-brimmed hats and muttering about an approaching storm, and Blaine sighed softly, wondering if Quinn would scold him if he wandered off on his own, just for some time alone with the sounds of the harbor.

Things had definitely changed for Blaine, over the past weeks that stretched into months and eventually years. First, there was Beth. Beautiful, smiley, golden-haired little Beth. She was the spitting image of Quinn but had Noah's dopey smile, and she was perfect. Almost anything could make her laugh, and when she did it was like a chorus of birdsong on an early morning. She was just now learning to walk, and Blaine often marveled at the differences between them; she was so small, peachy pink and downy-haired, so _new _while the wrinkles in his face were still receding. Blaine knew he had not been born the way Beth had, but it still fascinated him, to see her follow in his footsteps of growing up in a way so detached from his own.

The things that Blaine had counted on and taken for granted over the first few years of his life were not the same after Beth's arrival, to say the least. Blaine housed permanently in the spare room on the 2nd floor and learned to live with the drafts, and he quickly discovered that his time with Quinn and Noah was divided considerably with Beth. But despite his previous fears, Blaine was by no means abandoned or forgotten – he was just a little more secondary. Quinn was still his mama and always would be, and Blaine loved his baby sister as much as Quinn and Noah did.

It was easier learning how to be secondary when he had Kurt by his side. Kurt visited every few weeks or so, bursting into the house like a sunbeam with a suitcase and a megawatt smile. Kurt wasn't all elbows and knees that jutted out too far from his body anymore; he'd grown taller, still slender but a little more filled out over the years. His tongue was sharper and wittier, and Blaine often had a hard time keeping up with Kurt's lightning-speed conversations. But he loved Kurt's attitude and the words that shot right over Blaine's head and left him dizzy, because they were what made Kurt essentially _Kurt_, and Blaine wouldn't have it any other way. Kurt was Blaine's best friend, and Blaine valued that much more than a few silly thoughts about the intensity of Kurt's eyes.

A small tugboat chugged slowly into Blaine's line of vision, nearly colliding with the dock. The black paint of the hull was chipped and in need of repair and the deck was choked by numerous ropes and pulleys, but she looked sturdy, and Blaine watched with interest as an insanely tall, gangly man leapt onto the dock to promptly lean over the edge and vomit into the water. A wiry, middle-aged man with black hair and slanty eyes landed beside him, cursing and grumbling as a line of mismatched men gathered on the boat's deck to observe, snorting and elbowing each-other.

"You've got to pull yourself together, Finn, come on, swallow it down or something! Stomach flu? You were fine yesterday! You're really going to leave me without a full crew?"

The tall man mumbled something through his retching and the man with the slanty eyes curse and spat onto the dock.

"Anyone here willing to work a day for honest wage?" he hollered, scanning the men sitting on the line of benches in desperation. Blaine glanced to his left; not a single man sitting beside him on the damp wooden benches was a day under 80 and looked as if they'd sooner climb into their own coffins than aboard the tugboat.

"No one?" The man spat again and raked a hand through his hair, casting a harried glance at the gangling man at his feet, now sitting on his heels and wiping his mouth with a shaky hand.

Blaine stood up.

"Sit down!" Mr. Davis hissed at him like an old goose, but Blaine ignored him.

"I'll do it." The slanty-eyed man turned and stared at Blaine for a moment, dark eyes scanning him up and down, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

"You got your sea legs about you?" He didn't have an accent like most everyone Blaine knew, and his tone was inquiring, not rude, and Blaine immediately took a liking to him.

Blaine looked down at his own legs, now sturdy and sure-footed after weeks of practicing without the cane.

"I think so."

The man nodded slowly, deliberating before he clapped his hands together and urged Blaine forward. "Alright, come on then, daylight's wasting. Finn, get on home, come back when you're feeling better. We've got you covered."

The tall man gave Blaine a wobbly smile before pushing himself to his feet and stumbling away, and Blaine approached his new employer, slightly nervous now.

"Name's Mike Chang." Blaine took Mike Chang's proffered hand and shook firmly, trying to make a good impression. "This here's _A New Direction, _and I'm her captain. You'll be scrubbing the deck and cleaning out the kitchen today, and I'll pay you half right now but if you don't finish the job I keep the other half, sound fair?" Mike spoke in a confident, authoritative monologue, and Blaine had never heard more fair in his life.

"Yes, sir."

Captain Mike grinned and his whole face lit up, sea-worn lines fading into the smile, and Blaine couldn't help but smile back.

"What's your name, sailor?" Mike asked, climbing aboard _A New Direction _and offering Blaine a hand up.

"Blaine."

"That it?"  
"I guess so."

Mike shrugged and led Blaine across the messy deck, and Blaine watched his feet carefully, avoiding the coils of rope that threatened to catch at his ankles. The boat swayed beneath him and the smell of salt water was almost overpowering, but Blaine loved it already.

"Well, Blaine, I'm grateful you're doing this. Finn's a good man but he's unreliable, always eating the wrong thing and wondering why he's sick as a dog the next day, you know how it is…"

Blaine didn't but he nodded anyway, because Captain Mike Chang was quickly becoming one of the most interesting people Blaine had ever met, and he wanted him to keep talking.

Work on _A New Direction _was rigorous, taking its toll on Blaine's still-fragile bones, leaving him with dark, swollen bruises on every inch of his skin each night, but Blaine relished it. Despite the dirty, strenuous work scrubbing the deck, cleaning the kitchen, hauling lines, and scraping the occasional pile of bird shit from the railings, the whip of the crisp air across his cheeks stung with independence and the ache of his muscles made him feel strong, like he could do anything if he put his mind to it.

Of course, it was at that precise moment that a swell rose up and sent the boat lurching heavily to one side, and Blaine was re-acquainted with the deck for the umpteenth time in the past few weeks. The boards were slippery beneath his cheeks and he could feel a new bruise pulsing through his elbow and the heels of both hands.

"You alright down there, Blaine?" Mike hollered, leaning over the upper-deck railing, wind catching in his salt-and-pepper hair and pulling it up and away from his head.

Captain Mike, despite the rough exterior and tongue of a true sailor, peeled back like an onion under closer inspection, compassion and fierce loyalty exposed with the peeling of each layer. He'd opened up to Blaine after Blaine had showed up to the harbor each morning, bouncing and eager to board the boat, meeting Blaine's questions with a crinkled smile and quiet, intelligently worded answers that intrigued Blaine even further. Blaine learned that Mike was the son of a wealthy family who would have much preferred a strict education in the law or medical field to captaining a grungy tugboat that putted across the world whenever it was needed, but Mike said he didn't care what his family – especially his father – thought (he used words much more colorful and beyond Blaine's currently vocabulary, and Blaine was justly in awe).According to Mike, nothing he'd tried had been good enough in his parents' eyes. Singing, dancing – Mike reminisced on those two the most, longing in his eyes as he told Blaine about his teenage years, spent performing at a small theater until his parents found out and gave him an ultimatum: law school, or find another place to call home. Mike had chosen the latter, and hopped aboard _A New Direction _at age nineteen, never looking back.

Blaine wondered what that must be like, cutting ties with your family and finding an escape in ocean waves and a worn helm under your palms. Blaine loved the sea, but he always returned to his family once the sun kissed the ocean and orange spilled into blue.

"'M fine!" Blaine called back to Mike, rearranging his limbs and straightening up to be met with all 6 feet 2 inches of Finn Hudson.

"You all right, man?" Finn's gorilla-like arms steadied Blaine and Blaine cracked a small smile; Finn was always front and center in a crisis, the only problem being that he was usually a few crucial moments behind.

"I'm fine, Finn, thank you." Blaine craned his neck to smile at the man, who was easily the tallest person Blaine had ever seen, and Finn grinned crookedly, nodding and turning to lope towards the wheelhouse.

For Blaine's first week aboard the boat, Finn had kept making doubtful mentions about Blaine's apparent age and shuffling around, muttering irritably about Blaine taking his position, though Mike made sure they were both paid equal amounts, and didn't warm up until Blaine saved him from being knocked out by a falling coil of rope on a particularly stormy night. Then Finn was constantly at Blaine's heels, and it was all Blaine could do not to trip over him.

There were eight men aboard _A New Direcion, _including Blaine, and Blaine sometimes wondered how no-one ended up overboard by the hands of another some days; each man was so diverse from the other, complete with quirks and irritabilities that caused so much friction Blaine sometimes swore he saw sparks. Rory and Artie, for instance, were constantly at each-other's throats, bickering about everything from Ireland to pretty women, and Rory had a habit of pulling the locks out of Artie's wheelchair until Mike had to threaten to deport him back to his home country. Artie would then roll away to prepare dinner, glaring with narrowed, bespectacled eyes and muttering something about pesty leprechauns.

Sam and Joe generally got along well, but once they were on land they would inexplicably start to argue, getting into some heated debate about religion and the temptations of God, and Joe would stalk off, flipping his dreadlocks over his shoulder in disdain. Blaine once asked him how he had gotten his hair like that and had subsequently sat through a twenty minute biography of each dreadlock. Blaine supposed he should have heeded the simultaneous finger-slicing-neck-abort-mission motions from Sam, Finn, and Mike.

No one seemed to have a problem with Cooper, the tall, bright-eyed man who spoke too loud, pointed his fingers too much, and seemed to have a criticism for nearly everything, which surprised Blaine because the man was instantly on his nerves, especially when he patted Blaine on the head and started calling him "Squirt," much to the crew's amusement and less so to Blaine's. Mike explained to Blaine that Cooper was a rejected film actor and had nowhere else to go, which made Blaine feel kind of bad, but Cooper's excited fingers always somehow ended up nearly poking Blaine's eye out, which lessened his sympathies considerably.

Truth be told, Blaine often felt young and inexperienced compared to his crew. Sam had performed in clubs and bars before he found Captain Mike (White Chocolate was evidently a nickname he was still trying to shake); Rory had traveled across all of Ireland before deciding he wanted to experience America; Joe could quote Bible scriptures with no hesitation while half-asleep. Artie managed just as well as anyone else despite his disability (he'd been paralyzed in a boating accident several years prior and Mike was the only one who would take him after that), Cooper's dinnertime dramatic monologues were surprisingly riveting, and even Finn, with the two left feet and windmill arms, had a mean football tackle.

"I haven't done that much," Blaine admitted to Mike one day as he coiled the heavy ropes into a neat pile and Mike smoked a cigarette, gazing out at the pastel of the sunrise. Mike exhaled a ring of smoke into the chilly air and flicked ash over the rail, turning to Blaine.

"That's better than doing nothing at all, isn't it?"

Blaine held those words close to his heart, so he could feel them burn on his coldest, most doubtful days.

Blaine had never been inside a bar prior to his job on _A New Direction, _but to the rest of the crew, it was second nature to go out on a Friday night, charm the women, have a good time, and get absolutely, completely – as Mike called it – shitfaced. Even Joe, who protested against the sins of gluttony, always loosened up and downed enough booze to get him giddy and cotton-mouthed, while Rory, Mike, and Cooper often had to be dragged stinking drunk and unconscious from the premises.

Blaine enjoyed alcohol, the taste and the burn that always left him feeling happy and light as a feather, but after one night where he showed up home at 2am babbling on about how amazing Mrs. Jones's dentures were before throwing up all over Quinn's slippers, he preferred to watch his friends enjoy themselves while nursing his one and only drink.

"So, Blaine, how many women have you been with? Old man like you, you've got to have pleased them all, yes?" Mike had to shout over the shouting of everyone else, squinty-eyed against the smoke from his cigarette. Finn and Sam were currently engaged in an arm-wrestling contest while Cooper assumed the role of commentator, his booming voice audible even over the din of the bar, and Blaine sensed that the bottles and glasses surrounding Sam and Finn's straining arms were going to suffer an untimely death very soon.

"Um. None, I don't think?" Mike's eyes flew comically wide and he choked slightly on his own smoke, slamming his fist on the bar and staring at Blaine. In the background, Rory hollered something in Irish and there was a crash of shattering glass.

"None? In your entire life, you've never had a single woman?" Blaine shifted a little on his barstool, not quite understanding what Mike meant and certainly not willing to admit that he had never found another woman beautiful. Not the way he still found Kurt.

"No," he said, shrugging. Mike whistled softly and shook his head, slapping a few bills on the counter and jerking his hand at Blaine.

"Come on. We're changing this immediately. Don't give me that look, put down that drink and follow me."

And that was how Blaine, who had never had any inclination towards women, much less prostitutes in various stages of undress, ended up at a brothel, watching Captain Mike dance an elaborate tango with a dark-haired, heavily make-upped woman in fishnets and a chemise.

Blaine tried to make himself as small as possible, wondering if he slumped low enough in his seat Mike would forget him in favor of the goth girl and he could escape home to a glass of warm milk and the safety of his own bed.

Of course, things like that don't happen to friends of drunken tugboat captains, and so Blaine wasn't really all that surprised when he found himself flat on his back on a hard mattress, lace-covered thighs under his hands and barely-covered breasts swinging uncomfortably close to his face.

Blaine was absolutely not a violent person – he still had to close his eyes when a spider got into the house and Quinn shrieked for Noah to come kill it – but he was going to throw Captain Mike overboard at the soonest opportunity.

"Um," Blaine stammered, squirming underneath the curly-haired prostitute and looking as far away from her breasts as he possibly could without rolling his eyes all the way back in his head. "Um, I don't think this is going to work, miss –"

"Look, Grandpa, I'm the only one who was up for this, so just close your eyes or something and enjoy." She sounded only moderately annoyed, but Blaine realized she wasn't just about to get off him and let him stumble out. Warm, plump lips trailed up his neck and teeth nicked at the side of his mouth and Blaine was definitely starting to panic. Before he could protest, those lips came out of nowhere to cover his, pliant and tasting vaguely of cherries, and oh no, he didn't even think girls were pretty and he was kissing one, oh no, oh _no. _Also, Mama Quinn was going to _kill _him.

Skilled hands worked at the clasp of his pants and Blaine almost shot straight off the bed, creaky bones and all.

"No, I mean, you're very beautiful -" he assumed she was, anyway, by the way Mike hooted and clapped him on the back when the curvy woman had gestured for Blaine to follow her " – but… this isn't right. For me."

The prostitute straightened up, thin eyebrows blending into her wave of red hair, and Blaine scooted into a sitting position and shoved his glasses straighter on his nose. He felt awful, he really did, for she _was _beautiful – any of his crewmates would have a line of drool dangling from their chins at the sight of her, but all Blaine could think about was how her eyes were not nearly as pretty as Kurt's. And that scared Blaine, honestly, because he _should _be enjoying this, _Mike's gift, _as his captain had hollered before twirling into a room with the girl in fishnets, because any other _normal _male would be. Blaine had hoped, in the months that separated Kurt's last visit from now, that he would have forgotten his feelings for the boy and learned to appreciate girls, but so far he'd only noticed muscular shoulders and broad hands, the contrast of smiling white teeth against a patch of dark stubble. Blaine hated how, _again, _he couldn't be _normal, _but then again, he supposed, did he really just expect for things to change out of the blue?

"I'm very sorry for your trouble," Blaine said, mortified, sliding off the bed and retucking his shirt. "I have to go."

And he walked out, leaving the prostitute kneeling there looking absolutely bewildered.

Other women gave him funny looks as he hastened down the stairs, all barely clothed, which made it seem somehow creepier when he bid them good night.

He emerged into the heavy night air, breathing out a shaky sigh of relief and scanning the street to get his bearings. Whatever alcohol Mike had forced into him back at the bar had long since worn off and his head throbbed in tiny, staccato bursts from all the smoke and incense inside the brothel. Blaine heaved out a sigh, lowering himself to the curb and rubbing absently at a bruise on his forearm – this one from Finn slamming into him with an armful of breakfast dishes.

It looked like he'd be here for a while, if Mike's apparently lack of the ability to tire had any say in the situation. Blaine was thinking of good lies to tell Mike when he finally emerged – Mama Quinn had taught him to always be truthful, but now that Blaine was older he was discovering that some lies never hurt anyone – so Cooper, Rory, and especially Artie wouldn't spend every moment on the tugboat heckling him about his balk-and-run from the brothel, when a sleek black automobile pulled up, one of the rear windows rolling down. Blaine was instantly cautious, tensing on the sidewalk, but the man that leaned out the window looked relatively friendly, a few frown lines crinkling between his eyebrows, and eyes that looked as deep as the ocean Blaine loved so much.

"You look like you could use a ride," the man said in a low voice, offering Blaine a warm smile.

"That's very kind of you, sir, but I'm waiting for a friend."

"At this hour?"

Blaine glanced behind him at the dimly lit brothel, wondering it if even had closing hours. The man in the car chuckled a little. "Ah, I see."

There was a silence filled only with the putter of the engine and the shouts and giddy laughter from inside the brothel.

"Do you mind if I join you, then?" the man asked abruptly, and Blaine eyed him hesitantly for a moment before shrugging and patting the space next to him. Nodding gratefully, the man stepped out the automobile, unfolding into long arms and even longer legs. He murmured something through the open window to his driver before turning to face Blaine as the automobile trundled away, pale under the yellow gloom of the streetlights, and anxious, if the way he fidgeted with the lapels of his finely-made jacket as he settled himself beside Blaine was any indication.

"How rude of me," he said suddenly, tapping his forehead with a delicate hand. "My name is Thomas. Thomas Anderson-Button."

"Blaine." Blaine shook hands with Mr. Anderson-Button, still slightly confused about the whole situation but determined to be polite.

"Blaine," Mr. Anderson-Button said softly, eyes unfocusing just slightly, and Blaine shuffled his hands in his lap, glancing away to stare down the empty street. What exactly did Mr. Anderson-Button want with him? Part of Blaine wanted to scramble back into the brothel to wait for Mike, but the other part told him to be polite, talk to the mysterious stranger who obviously had some things he wanted to say. The commanding voice in Blaine's head sounded an awful lot like Mama Quinn.

"So… what brings you here?" Blaine asked slowly, and Mr. Anderson-Button smiled ruefully down at his shoes, polished and shiny enough that Blaine could almost see his own reflection in them. "Just passing through, really. You happened to look a little stranded. Brothels not your forte?"

Blaine shrugged good-naturedly, scuffing the toe of his boot against the street. "I guess not."

"I was never fond of them myself." Mr. Anderson-Button stretched out his long legs and gazed pensively down the street.

"Why's that?" Blaine asked, now a little more interested in the strange man. Mr. Anderson-Button licked his lips and looked down, a slight shrug lifting his shoulder.

"I preferred my wife. She was the love of my life from a very early age. I never had any need for another woman."

Blaine nodded absently, pretending he could relate. "She sounds lovely."

Mr. Anderson-Button smiled softly and flicked a speck of lint from the knee of his pants. "She was."

Blaine caught the past-tense and swallowed, trying to figure out how to tread along the delicate situation. "Oh. I'm… I'm sorry…"

Mr. Anderson-Button waved him off. "It's been a long time now. Anyway, what brings _you _out here?" Blaine flushed a little, thinking back to his experience in the brothel and feeling no less embarrassed.

"My friend Mike insisted on it. I… I haven't done a lot, see. He wanted to help me get some experience." Mr. Anderson-Button nodded his understanding.

"Why haven't you done a lot? An older man like you, it would seem you'd have the world and more under your belt."

Blaine grimaced, shaking his head. "That's the problem, really. I'm not… I'm not as old as I look. I was born with this disease, no one's been able to tell me what exactly's wrong with me. I haven't been able to do too much yet because of it, but I'm getting there."

Mr. Anderson-Button nodded slowly, eyes travelling down Blaine's wrinkled face, alighting on his bent, aching hands before he blinked, swallowing roughly and returning his gaze to his shoes. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, don't be. My mother always said what makes you different makes you special."

"Your mother?"

"Miss Quinn. I'm adopted. Someone left me on her doorstep when I was just a baby… I don't think they quite knew what to do with me, but Quinn and Noah manage just fine." There was something in Mr. Anderson-Button's eyes that looked like deep, carefully guarded pain, but Blaine pretended not to notice. Mr. Anderson-Button smiled tightly and folded his arms across his knees while Blaine shifted to a more comfortable position on the pavement.

"I see."

They were silent for a minute or so, but this time the quiet was less uncomfortable and more companionable. Blaine just breathed, massaging the cramps out of his hands and Mr. Anderson-Button drummed his fingers lightly on his forearm, eyes unfocused.

"So, Mr. Anderson-Button –" Blaine began, but his companion chuckled and raised his hand, cutting Blaine off.

"Thomas, please. The last name is such a mouthful."

Blaine smiled and nodded, continuing. "Thomas – what to do you do for a living?" He couldn't have been in any line of physical work; the man's delicate hands looked far too fragile for manual labor and his build was that of a runner, not a heavy-lifter or crewman.

"Buttons," Thomas laughed, as if repeating an old joke that had not stopped being funny but was now simply tedious. "Button's Buttons, what a surprise, right? Two generations and still going strong. And what about you?"

"I'm a tugboat man," Blaine said, and he couldn't help preening, just a little. "Kind of an extra hand on deck. I love feeling that free out on the water, you know?" Thomas smiled, a little wistfully.

"I can definitely imagine."

"Blaine!" Blaine turned sharply to see – speak of the devil and he shall appear – Mike pacing towards them, a huge, lazy grin on his face and the top buttons of his shirt still unbuttoned. "I was asking for you, they said you left!"

"Oh, yes, it was… over quickly," Blaine supplied frantically, while Thomas watched in quiet amusement. Mike reached them and slapped a jovial hand on Blaine's shoulder.

"You dog, you! Told you you were missing out, didn't I? Who's this?"

"Mike, this is Thomas Anderson-Button," Blaine said, getting to his feet with a slight groan and a crack of stretching bones, and Thomas followed suit, extending a polite hand for Mike to shake.

"From the button company, yeah, I've heard of you." Mike gave a friendly smile as he took Thomas's hand in his own. Blaine hoped he'd had the decency to wash them.

"Notorious, I'm sure," Thomas joked, glancing between the pair of them. "Can I offer you gentlemen a ride home, anything? I told my driver to be back at the top of the hour…"

"Nah, we're all right. We've got to pick up the rest of the boys anyway." Blaine deflated just a bit at the thought of helping Mike lug his crewmen's heavy, sweaty bodies into taxis. Last time they'd gone out, Rory had squawked something in Irish before heaving out the contents of his stomach into Blaine's lap, and Blaine was not keen on repeating the experience. Thomas smiled and nodded understandingly.

"Of course. Well, it was a pleasure meeting the both of you. Blaine, I'd love to meet again sometime, if that's all right with you…?"

"That would be nice," Blaine said warmly. The man was certainly someone Blaine would like to know more about. "Have a good night, Thomas."

"You too." Mike slung his arm around Blaine's shoulders as they started down the street, starting to babble on about the girl in the fishnets – Blaine caught the name _Tina _before Mike just started sighing happily – and Blaine twisted around to glance over his shoulder before they rounded the corner. Mr. Anderson-Button watched them go, eyes burning with something that looked like regret.


	6. Chapter Five

Dawn broke, hazy and gray, fractured through with slivers of hesitant pink, and Blaine rose, awake before his feet touched the ground, cracking a yawn and reaching for his clothes. He dressed warmly, prepared for the bite of winter in the air, and crept down the hall, swinging Abigail Hummel's door open in a slow, cautious arc.

Blaine had just passed his sixteenth birthday and was fidgeting with the energy of it. He thrived and lived and loved, balancing his time between both of the families he now had, the one that smiled and bickered and loved so fiercely under the roof of his house, and the one that brawled and swore and drank too much too quickly on the sway of that tugboat out on the water. The former was the place Blaine stayed when he needed a loving smile, a firm hand, or the healing laugh of a delighted child; the latter was where he went to feel healthy and thriving with the wind at his back and the sun in his eyes from all directions as it sprang off the surface of open water.

Blaine often wondered whether or not his time on _A New Direction _was in fact healing him by increments, that each morning he rose and made straight for the lines, heavy with salt under his hands, or each evening that he scarfed Artie's meals (even the ones better suited for the seagulls) played a part in elongating his life from the years he'd already somehow snatched from the hands of fate. He felt the changes in him, now more than ever, felt his muscles pop above his skin and push against the sleeves of his shirt, felt the hardy stretch of his lungs, his legs. Blaine had never felt more alive than he did on the deck of that boat, and that feeling of absolute _living _was something he'd been longing to share with someone, perhaps capture it in a mason jar and bring it under their nose so they could see and feel the pulse of life rattling against the glass.

Blaine had decided on that someone long ago.

"Kurt," he hissed, tiptoeing as quietly as he could towards Kurt's side of the bed, where Kurt's sleek hair tangled on the pillow and his nose poked out from under the heavy comforter, endearingly pink. On the far side of the queen bed, Abigail slept on, nothing more than a cloud of white hair and slow breath, like a brewing storm on an overcast day.

"Kurt," Blaine repeated, reaching out a gentle hand and grasping Kurt's shoulder, a sharp ridge beneath the bedcovers. Kurt stirred, eyes blinking gradually open and peering at Blaine, still cloudy with sleep.

"Mmph?" he questioned, and Blaine drew a finger to his lips.

"Shh. Wanna see something? It has to be a secret, though." At that, Kurt's eyes cleared, immediately bright and eager. He sat up, shrugging off the blankets and stretching curled toes towards the floor.

"Get dressed and meet me downstairs," Blaine said softly, and Kurt nodded, already flying around the room, a tornado of the quietest sort.

"Where are we going?" Kurt asked, voice cracking with the cold as Blaine shut the porch door softly behind them and pulled his scarf more snugly around his neck. Kurt gazed at him, questions spelling out across his face in the arch of his eyebrows. He stood merely two inches shorter than Blaine now, slender and willowy, all smooth, sharp angles and miles of limbs that were now bundled under layers of winter clothing. Blaine smiled and thumped down the stairs, rubbing his achy hands together to jumpstart feeling. Kurt trailed behind, an inquisitive shadow.

"You'll see."

The harbor was still sleeping when they arrived, snoring in dull clunks of the boats against the dock, water rippling so almost-silently that you could pretend it was your own breath. Dawn warmed at the edge of the water, a pastel pencil whose eraser smudged at the gray slate of the sky. Blaine led the way down the dock, two sets of feet thumping hollowly at the same speed, and by the time Blaine offered him a hand up to board _A New Direction, _Kurt was smiling. He always had been too smart for his own good; Blaine sometimes worried that Kurt would see right through him with his shrewd eyes, pull him out and stamp a label on his emotions in a way that Blaine did not even know how to do. What would Kurt think if he knew that Blaine still harbored feelings for him inside his chest, much like these ships, all lined up and floating quietly in the water? The only difference was, the fading names along their hulls all read _Kurt._

Blaine descended the steps to the bunks with practiced feet, glancing behind him to make sure Kurt didn't slip on the icy metal, and pressed a hand against the cracked door on the left, opening it fully.

"Mike?" Blaine poked his head inside the cabin to see Captain Mike stretched out in his bunk, one long leg dangling along the edge of the thin mattress, snoring for all he was worth.

"Mike!"

Mike jerked awake, foot finding purchase on the floor before his brain did on being awake and nearly sending him sprawling to the cabin floor.

"What's going on?" he demanded, but his words came out garbled as one long syllable and Blaine smirked fondly, waiting with a practiced patience for Mike to drag himself into the world of the living.

"Blaine? It's Saturday, what the hell are you doing here?" Mike's squinted eyes lit on Kurt, who leaned around Blaine's shoulder, observing Mike with a quirked eyebrow. "Who's this?"

"This is my friend, Kurt. Can you take us out? I want to show him the river."

It was a sign of how far their friendship had progressed over the years that Mike did not immediately scoff and bury his face back into his pillow. Instead, he cocked his head to the side, debating. Blaine put on his best begging face.

"Oh, all right," Mike groaned, heaving himself off the bunk and stretching. "You better be something special, Kurt."

"Oh, I am." Kurt said brightly, and Mike snorted, while Blaine did not tell either of them how right they were.

_A New Direction _chugged out of the harbor at Mike's hands and Kurt clung to the upperdeck railing, eyes bright with the sunrise.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, watching the churn of the icy river beneath the boat, the catch of the light on the edges of the frothing currents. Blaine watched it in Kurt's eyes and realized he could not agree more.

They skimmed along for minutes that Blaine wished were hours, until the sun burst from the river and glinted in Kurt's hair, and Captain Mike blared the horn so cheerfully that it took Blaine another ten minutes to make sure his eardrums had not dropped out of his head in search of someplace quieter. The wind whipped at their skin, pinching with frosted fingers, but neither of them complained. Kurt was too immersed in the roll of the water, and Blaine in the flush of pink on Kurt's cheeks.

A huge ocean liner glided past and Kurt and Blaine stared, both equally enraptured at the grace that outmatched the size. Bundled passengers waved at them from the decks, breath frosting like tiny puffs of cotton from this distance, and Kurt waved back, pale hand flying against the brittle blue of the sky.

It was worth every second of numb cold to see the wonder in Kurt's eyes.

* * *

"Ma?" Blaine said hesitantly, taking a dirty plate from her hands and plunging it into the sink, soap up to his elbows and the scent of lemon in his nose. Quinn glanced up, puffing a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes as she scraped scraps of leftover food into the trash.

"What is it, baby?" she asked, straightening up and wincing as she rubbed at a sore spot on her back. Blaine bit his lip, taking another dish from her and twirling it around in his hands.

"What would you think if I went away for a while?" And just like that, the dishes were forgotten in favor of him. Her soft eyes were squinty with a frown as she tilted her head to the side and leaned against the counter, lips parting around a slow breath.

"What do you mean?" she murmured, not angry, just wary. Blaine scrubbed hard at a spot of hardened lasagna as he considered his words.

"Captain Mike and the crew have been contracted for three years with a tug and salvage company. They're leaving for open sea in a week. Mike wants me to come." Blaine paused, gazing into the sudsy water and wishing it could show him how to go forward. "I _want _to go," he added, avoiding Mama Quinn's eyes and the confusion in them. He didn't have to look to know she had moved right beside him, the hands that had raised him, molded him and shaped him into the person he was now resting on his shoulder and pulling his chin around, forcing him to look at her.

"Baby, I'm not going to be the one to stop you," she said gently, and Blaine was taller than her now – how had that snuck up on him? His mama seemed so small now, thin and delicate with the bones of a bird, and Blaine was so afraid of hurting her, that the smallest breath might send her sprawling.

Her head ducked and a sigh punched out of her, but when she gazed back up at him her eyes were dry. "You're a man now, Blaine. It's time you start your future."

Blaine clunked the dishes down in the sink, mindless of the soapy wave that gushed over the edge of the counter, and pulled Quinn into a hug, sudsy hands and all.

"Thank you, Mama." he whispered, and she snuffled against his shoulder, stroking at his back with loving hands, and Blaine realized that leaving meant he would have to let her go.

Blaine swallowed hard and held on tighter.

* * *

The day Blaine left was sunny but brisk, the ebb of October trailing lazy, lingering fingers through the rise of November, and Mama Quinn's tears burned hot against the crook of his neck. He pressed a kiss to her hair, brushing his thumb over where it was fading to gray, and smiled at her with a confidence he did not feel.

"You be careful, do you hear me?" she warned, voice thick but her eyes blazing, and Blaine nodded and squeezed her shoulder.

"I'll be fine, Mama, don't worry."

"Give 'em some hell, son." Noah said warmly, smiling so wide his eyes crinkled, and Blaine hugged his father tightly, clinging so hard that Noah chuckled and dropped a kiss to Blaine's forehead. "We'll be here when you get back, don't get teary on me. I don't think your mother here would be able to take it." Noah winked before Quinn swatted at him and he yelped, laughing and trapping her in a cage of tanned arms against his chest.

"Go, now, while she's contained!" he hooted, and Blaine laughed through the ache in his chest and turned for the porch stairs, a suitcase in one hand and a satchel in the other, his material world held so casually at each side of his body.

He had said goodbye to the elderlies, grasped hands and accepted hard kisses on his cheeks and bid farewell to the familiar, wrinkled faces that wished him well.

Blaine knew he would probably never see some of them again.

He had said goodbye to Mr. Schuster and Emma, who now lived a few blocks down in a spotless house that smelled strongly of bleach, and Mr. Schue had held his face in both hands and told him that he would be waiting to hear Blaine's stories if he returned, and Emma had smiled daintily and touched his cheek with the lightest of fingertips.

He had said goodbye to Abigail, who held him silently for several moments and told him she hoped he found all the things he was looking for.

Blaine didn't quite know what he was looking for, but he hoped he found it, too.

Blaine said goodbye to the house he had grown up in as his feet carried him down the walkway he'd followed under so many different conditions; bloody and lost, staggering drunk, breathless and silent with Kurt at his heels, and now, grown and searching for himself, through the whitewashed gate that he'd bruised his shins on so many times, clung to and peered over the top of when he wanted an adventure to call his own. His feet had just touched the stretch of sidewalk that posed as a runway towards the middle of his story, when a clatter and a cry jerked him around.

"Blaine!" In a whirl of a gray sweater and boots laced up to shins, Kurt was in front of him, round cheeks flushed and eyes flashing in a way that Blaine knew would be foolish to oppose. Kurt in his teenage years was a force of nature that Blaine could usually temper, but in his haze of packing and preparing, Blaine had neglected to read the forecast.

"Where are you going?" Kurt demanded. His arms were locked self-consciously over his chest and his toes shuffled against the sidewalk, out of place in his own body. Blaine wanted to tell this shy, unsure Kurt that he was beautiful – would _always_ be beautiful to Blaine – but Blaine could only offer Kurt a rueful smile that held less than half of the weight as the words Blaine wanted to say.

"Out to sea, as far as I know," he said, and Kurt seemed to shrink a little, eyelashes fluttering as he became fascinated with the ground.

"Oh," he murmured, barely a breath, and Blaine took an involuntary step forward, wishing he could tell Kurt, his best friend, the solid presence in Blaine's life from the start, something that would make him understand, make him see why Blaine had to do this, find himself in ocean waves and the rock of a boat, because he didn't know where else to look and was afraid if he didn't start now he never would. But Blaine's tongue was heavy and his hands were full and Kurt was just standing there, still baby-faced and innocent, but so much more intuitive than Blaine could understand. He hoped that Kurt would see anyway, even if Blaine could not find the right words.

"I'll send you a postcard," he said stupidly, and Kurt looked up at him, mouth quirking slightly in that way that Blaine knew meant he was trying not to roll his eyes.

"You better. Send me a postcard from everywhere. I mean it." He backtracked slowly, eyebrows raised high as he didn't take his eyes off Blaine, daring him to oppose.

"No goodbye?" Blaine teased, shifting his bags in his hands, and Kurt did roll his eyes this time, turning on his heel and calling over his shoulder with a tisk.

"You know I'll never say goodbye to you!" he sang, as if it were obvious, and then he darted up the walk, leaving Blaine standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk with a heart simultaneously flying and yet heavier than the bags he carried.

* * *

Blaine liked to pretend that the sea was glass. In the early mornings when he rose and made his way up to the deck with the fog of sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes and between his joints, the rising sun would slice through the waves, pink like the blush of Kurt's cheeks and yellow like Mama Quinn's hair. Blaine would lean against the railing with the wind in his hair, watching the sea of glass ripple and ebb with colors Blaine could not name, and he would feel calm, limbs loose and relaxed as he stood there, the only soul awake for thousands of miles.

Of course, all glass shatters, and Finn would stumble up with huge, noisy feet and Cooper would sing to the morning at the top of his oversized lungs while Rory and Artie bickered over breakfast and Mike would holler for everyone to get to work, and Blaine would retreat from the rail, knowing he would have his moment alone with the sunrise the next morning.

And so his hands and bunched muscles in his shoulders, shouting until his voice was raw from the salt and brief moments watching huge boats towed behind them, marveling at the size and grandeur. As a small man with an even smaller amount of world experience, Blaine liked to stop and appreciate things that were taken easily for granted.

* * *

_November 12, 1936_

_ Dear Kurt,_

_ You wouldn't believe how big the world is, or how long the ocean goes on. We've been travelling for two weeks now, and there's no end to it. I've seen so many different ports and harbors that I can't keep them all straight anymore. You would love seeing how differently people dress and act outside of New Orleans. Everything is so new – I feel like I've been born into an entirely new world._

_-Blaine_

_**February 9th, 1937**_

_**Dear Blaine,**_

_**Oh, I'm so jealous! Nothing's happening here in New Orleans, just the same old, same old. New Years was good, though – my father and I set off sparklers and watched the fireworks out at the harbor at midnight. Do you remember that one New Years we spent at the boarding house with you? I miss that.**_

_**I know it's been months, but happy birthday! And yes, of course I remembered it. We've known each other for eight years, you think I would forget?  
Write me again, if you can! I loved the postcard.**_

**_Love,_**

_** Kurt**_

* * *

Blaine kept his promise to Kurt and wrote every chance he got, collecting eccentric postcards from every city and detailing all the places he'd seen, the people he'd met, in cities far bigger and teeming with more life than the one he'd left behind. He told Kurt about skyscrapers and ocean liners, how the sunset bled into the ocean and how he could feel the wind in the lines of his cheeks. He told Kurt _everything. _In turn, Kurt told Blaine about his fifteenth birthday, and then his sixteenth, and how his father was teaching him to drive their car. He told Blaine about his seventeenth birthday and school, and the boys who called him names and threw his books to the ground, sent sweet, headstrong Kurt home in tears, and from across the world, Blaine ached.

* * *

_September 12th, 1940_

_ Dear Kurt,_

_ I can't know what may have happened since your last letter, but please, don't let those boys at your school treat you like that anymore. Tell someone about it, especially if it gets worse. It's not right of them to do that to you, and you don't deserve any of it. I wish I could do something to help. Don't be afraid to stand up for yourself! I watched you grow up and trust me, you've got courage you may not even realize you have. Don't hesitate to use it._

_ We sailed back to Florida, and I wished I could have been closer to home so I could drop by and say hello. It's strange, knowing I've been out here with the boys for almost three years now. You'd like them, I think. They're good men, all of them, if a little loud in the mornings. Cooper especially. He's decided to crash into our cabin every morning singing about sunshine and calling me "Squirt" or "Blainey." Don't know what got into his head but now the whole crew's been doing it for weeks now. Lucky for me I'm an early riser._

_ As much as I miss New Orleans, this is everything I could have dreamed of, and more. The world is a beautiful, amazing place, and can't believe it took me this long to see it._

_ Take care of yourself, Kurt. Don't forget what I said about courage!_

_ -Blaine_

_** November 20th, 1940**_

_** Dear Blaine,**_

_** Well, I took your advice. Dear Azimo has a broken nose and I've scraped by with a month's worth of detentions. I guess he just shouldn't have messed with me, or my fists. Good thing my dad taught me how to throw a proper punch. I can barely write this out because my knuckles are bruised, but it was worth it.**_

_** I'm lucky I didn't get suspended, though; I want to apply for a college up in New York that probably wouldn't let me in with a record. NYADA, have you heard of it? New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts. I'm sure I've mentioned it, all the dancing I've done since you left, ballet and tap and all sorts of things my father wasn't sure about, but I love it. It makes me feel like I'm flying. I want to be up there in front of thousands of people, perform so I can hear them clap for me. Does that make me vain? I just want to be recognized, really. I'm nothing more than a boy with a dream bigger than anything I've had in my life so far. **_

_** I need to get out of this town – I love my father and your family of course, but I feel like I was made for so much more, if that makes sense. I can almost hear New York calling me. Maybe if I get in and you're still not back, you can come visit me in that boat of yours.**_

_** Cooper sounds like a darling, why weren't we introduced? Blainey. Hm, good thing you're not here right now or I would chant it at you until your ears bled.**_

_** Your birthday's just passed, hasn't it? See, I still remember. I know you won't get this until later because the mail is ridiculously slow, but that wont' stop me from saying it anyway.**_

_**Happy Birthday, Blaine.  
Love,**_

_** Kurt.**_

* * *

"All right, who's the girl?" Blaine jumped, nearly losing his hold on Kurt's letter and toppling sideways onto the icy deck. Captain Mike held up his hands, returning from tying up the boat to the dock while the rest of the crew snored, a friendly grin splitting his face.

"Whoa there, just me. So tell me, come on. All those letters… did you meet her at a port? She was that pretty blonde girl from Florida, wasn't she?" Mike perched himself beside Blaine, clamping a cigarette between his teeth as Blaine blushed in the freezing air and fumbled for words.

"Um, no, it's just my friend, Kurt. Remember, I took him out on the river a few years ago."

"Ah, I remember him. Smart kid, almost as tall as you?" Blaine nodded and Mike lit his cigarette, exhaling a puff of smoke as the conversation gracefully dropped. Blaine smoothed Kurt's letter carefully and tucked it into his jacket pocket, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm and gazing out at the water, a mirror image of the sky as it multiplied the stars. Sometimes, on nights like these, Blaine imagined that they were sailing up in the sky, and if he leaned over the side of the boat he could grab a handful of stars to cup in his palm until they burnt out.

"You know, I've known you for quite a few years now, Blaine," Mike said in the soft way of his, ashes from his cigarette drifting to the deck as he considered. Blaine glanced up at him, waited. "I could swear you've lost as many years as you've been here; you've done nothing but get stronger, and unless I'm losing my mind, _taller, _and I'm fairly positive you had twice as many lines in your face back then." Mike took a drag off his cigarette, the embers setting the lower half of his face aglow in orange and he eyed Blaine, a bemused smile twisting his lips around the cigarette. Mike wasn't strictly asking, but his curiosity was clear.

"All true," Blaine said, laughing nervously and hitching his knee up to his chest. He hadn't told his crew about his condition, had never even told them his age just in case questions followed. He wasn't ashamed of it, really; in fact, he had come to accept that this was who he was, and hating it wouldn't change a damn thing, but it was always hard for him to explain, and harder still to navigate the questions, because Blaine himself didn't know the answers.

But Blaine trusted Mike, and Mike had taken Blaine under his wing despite everything, and, as his closest friend out here, Blaine figured Mike deserved an explanation.

"I… I have a sort of… condition. A disease, you might say." Mike's eyebrows peaked and then furrowed, working to understand. "I'm not sick, not really," Blaine hastened to explain, and he paused, drumming his fingers against his knee contemplatively. "I was born backwards, sort of. I don't age like everyone else. I look sixty, but I'm actually twenty-one."

Mike was silent, puffing smoke rings as he frowned, and Blaine smiled sheepishly, nudging him with his shoulder.

"Surprise?" he offered in a small voice, and Mike snorted, dragging his hand down his chin and shaking his head at Blaine.

"So… that time… with the brothel… how old were you really?" Blaine pressed his lips together to smother a smile.

"Fourteen."

"Fucking Christ," Mike spluttered, dropping his face into his hand, cigarette a forgotten pinpoint of orange against the inky sky. "You mean to say I had you defiled at fourteen? Jesus, I'm going straight to hell."

Blaine laughed out loud, clapping Mike on the shoulder. "It's okay, I left before anything happened. It just didn't feel right. That's why I was waiting for you out on the street."

"Christ," Mike huffed again, laughing reluctantly when Blaine nudged him again and shoving his cigarette back between his lips. "Well, I apologize for that, if it still counts."

Blaine waved him off, propping his chin in his hand and smiling out at the silence of the ocean. "No harm done."

* * *

_January 16th, 1941_

_ Dear Kurt,_

_ I wish I had been around to see that punch! I probably shouldn't congratulate you for it, but I will anyway._

_ NYADA sounds amazing! Of course you'll get in, I know how hard you've been working the past couple years. You and New York sound like a perfect fit if you ask me.I wish I were as smart as you are when I was your age._

_ We're headed towards Russia, Murmansk, I think. We'll be staying there through the rest of winter and doing small jobs at their harbor. I can't believe how quickly three years passed. I'll be home before you know it! How are Quinn and Noah these days? Any word on them?_

_ I'm sorry this is so short, but the storms are crazy tonight and Mike's calling for us to help. I'll write as soon as I can!_

_ -Blaine_

_** February 21st, 1941**_

_** Dear Blaine,**_

_** I'm a finalist for NYADA! I'm so excited I could scream, and my dad is, as well. I haven't let go of the letter and my hands are shaking so badly, so I'm sorry if you can't read this! I can't wait to get out of this town, Blaine, I wish I could do what you did and just jump on a boat and sail off to some great adventure.**_

_** Your family is doing well! Noah was under the weather last time I saw him, but I'm sure he's better by now. They miss you, of course. We all do. **_

_** Russia! Oh, I've said it before but I'll say it again – I'm so damn jealous! I would trade lives with you in an instant. At least if I do get into NYADA I'll be able to experience a real city. I'll have my fingers crossed until May unless I'm careful.**_

_** I can't wait to see you. We have so much to talk about, letters every other month have not made up for not being able to hear your voice. I often think about what you look like now – how many years have you lost? I'm going to roll around my floor in excitement for everything today.**_

_** Write when you can!**_

_** Love,**_

_** Kurt Hummel, NYADA finalist!**_

* * *

Elizabeth clunks the journal down on her knee, lips pressed together and her shoulders slumped.

"Dad, you never told me about any of this…" she murmurs, glancing up at Kurt. Kurt pulls a painful swallow and shifts in the bed, reaching out a hand for his daughter. She grips his fingers, runs her thumb over the knots and veins, looking at him like she's never seen him before.

_Well, _Kurt supposes, _She never really has. Not all of me._

"You were a dancer?" she whispers, a funny, shivering smile playing at her mouth, and Kurt wheezes out a brittle laugh, fingers squeezing faintly around hers.

"It was a very… very long time ago, sweetheart." Elizabeth gazes at him a moment longer, biting at her lower lip before she nods and drops her hands back to the stack of postcards she's been reading from, alternating between the piles labeled _To Kurt _and the ones labeled _To Blaine. _ She plucks one up from the former, clearing her throat to read.

Kurt has forgotten what heartache feels like. He has forgotten the shudder of an inexperienced heart with the strains of an orchestra in the background, the tremble of knees against a floorboard, a postcard held with a shaking hands that fold and fold until the familiar script is hidden out of sight, but not out of mind. He remembers as the words fall from Elizabeth's lips, and he is seventeen, and it feels like his heart is breaking all over again.

_March 30th, 1941_

_ Dear Kurt,_

_ Congratulations on NYADA! You'll be amazing in your audition, I know you will._

_ You probably won't believe what I'm about to tell you. I can barely believe it myself._

_ I've met someone. He (yes, he. I figured I might as well come clean with everything or not at all. And I know that maybe it's wrong, but it feels __**right, **__Kurt. I can't explain it. I hope you understand) is everything I've been looking for. I don't know what's going to happen now, it's a bit complicated, but I feel like…do you remember when you told me about when you dance, it feels like flying? That's how this feels._

_ To put it simply, I'm in love._

_ -Blaine. _


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N: Well. I'm alive. And I wrote some porn. Warnings for Seblaine? But don't worry, Blaine's fallen a little too hard for someone who may not be there to catch him. Enjoy!**

* * *

The Winter Palace in Murmansk, Russia was not quite as grand as the name would suggest; the pipes rattled as if shaken by invisible hands, the radiators, for all their noise, put out enough heat to barely warm the tips of fingers and toes, and complimentary breakfast did not exactly compliment the digestive system. But, Blaine decided as he dropped his single bag onto the creaky mattress and rubbed his aching hands together, he would be content with calling it home.

Blaine let out a sleepy sigh, stretching his arms over his head, leaning for the bedside table and the oil lamp that rested on it, starting it up and glancing around the shadowy room.

The furniture was worn oak and looked as if it had seen a hundred lifetimes, all scuffed edges and tired lines. The walls were a dark, paneled burgundy and were marred with spots and cigarette burns in the shape of eyes, and Blaine smiled a little at the thought of all the things these walls must have seen.

On tired feet Blaine moved to the window and peered through the dingy glass; snow fell in heavy drifts, filtering the sunset over Murmansk, and Blaine took a few minutes just to watch the streets, as the bustle slowed to a crawl in preparation for night, observing his very own personal snowglobe. Eventually, night obscured the glass and Blaine drew the curtains, taking a step back before flopping bonelessly onto his bed, the smell of linen and soap puffing up to linger in his nose on impact. He had just let his eyes drift closed, the mattress beneath him not particularly soft but embracing every line of him all the same, when a gleeful pounding on his door jolted him upright.

"Blaine! Come on you layabout, drinks are on me tonight!" Rory's thick accent carried easily through the wood, accompanied by an overexcited whoop that had to belong to Cooper, and Blaine groaned softly, swinging his legs off the bed and striding to pull open the door.

"When are the drinks _not _on you, Rory?" he asked the energetic Irishman by way of greeting, leaning against the doorframe with a fond smile. Rory winked and beckoned him down the hallway, tailing behind a humming Cooper, footfalls muffled on the thick carpeting. Blaine heaved out a relenting sigh and followed, knowing full well that every last one of his crewmen would be drunk before the moon had reached its peak in the sky.

Sure enough, Mike, Artie, and Sam were already on their second round when Blaine reached the bar tucked into the furthest corner of the downstairs lobby, and the raucous cheers they emitted once they saw Blaine rattled the dingy chandelier above the front desk. Blaine had acquired a sort of fond acceptance of his crew and their drinking habits over the years, and had learned how to easily dodge Artie's wheels when he careened out of control, figured out the most efficient way to carry a potentially violent Sam back to his bunk, and how to extricate himself from Mike, who developed an endearing yet overwhelming tendency to cling under the influence of alcohol. Of course, there was nothing to do but sit back and wait when Rory started bellowing Irish curses, Cooper jumped atop a table to burst into Shakespeare, or Joe recited increasingly manic Bible scriptures – Blaine had discovered that the hard way and ended up with one or two accidental boots to the face from dramatic gestures.

Luckily for Blaine, Finn was the only other member of the crew who drank somewhat responsibly; Blaine stood only around 5'4, which meant he had an excellent view of Finn's lower torso on a good day, and Blaine would _hate _to get in range of Finn's drunken flailings. Blaine had been the one to help stem the flow of Artie's bloody nose when Finn's elbow had caught him unexpected on one of those uninhibited nights, and had no desire to be the next man in Artie's position.

Tonight, though, Finn was nursing just a single drink and watching the hooting men with a smile that was in the same family as rolling eyes. Blaine bypassed Sam, who was once again listing a hundred and one reasons why Joe's dreadlocks were impractical, and pulled up a chair next to Finn, returning his friendly nod.

"What do you think of Russia so far?" Finn asked, voice raised over the small din. Blaine shrugged, stirring ice in his glass.

"It's beautiful. The snow's not exactly increasing visibility of it, though." Finn laughed and nodded, resting his elbows on the table.

"Yeah, no kidding." They sat in a comfortable silence; Finn was not exactly a conversationalist, and Blaine rather liked just being around Finn's quiet energy. It was calming, grounding, even.

"What's it like, growing backwards?" Finn asked suddenly, and Blaine stilled, fingers gripping his glass a little more snugly. Finn immediately flushed a ruddy maroon, throwing his hand down on the table in front of Blaine in supplication.

"Oh god, that was so rude. I didn't mean to overhear – I just heard you and Mike talking about it a while ago and – and I've been wanting to ask you ever since." Finn looked properly horrified at his slip-of-tongue and Blaine hid a small smile behind his glass as he took a sip, shaking his head at Finn.

"It's fine. No harm in being curious." Finn relaxed visibly, broad shoulders slumping in his battered leather jacket.

Blaine contemplated for a few moments, watching the ice spin like a private galaxy inside his glass while Finn fidgeted, shuffling his feet under the table and eyeing Blaine warily.

"It's like… you know you're younger, but no one else does," Blaine supplied slowly. "Sometimes I feel trapped inside myself, like I landed in the wrong body by accident." Finn looked enraptured and Blaine shrugged, smiling faintly. "I don't really have a basis for comparison. It's just… how I am."

"Weird," Finn said delightedly, leaning back in his chair and staring at a point over Blaine's head with distant eyes. "So… you're young, then? Younger than all of us?"

Blaine did a quick head count; in his mid-thirties, Mike was the oldest, and Cooper, at twenty-five, aged Blaine by only a couple of years.

"I guess I am."

"Huh." Finn scratched a hand over his hair before resting his chin in his palm, the very definition of intense thought. "It seems kind of sad if you think about it… watching everyone you love die before you do."

Finn's words clunked heavy in Blaine's stomach. He had never thought about it like that before, the simple fact that if he was growing younger, then ultimately those around him would age until decades and then death separated them. He thought about it then, the lines and the wrinkles fading from his face to appear on his crew's, trading aches and pains for early mornings uninhibited by cracking joints while his friends became stooped and gray. He thought about funerals, and old bodies once young while he stood in life and youth. All at once, Blaine realized how awful a responsibility it was.

He must have looked upset, or pained, because Finn backpedaled wildly, leaning in closer to Blaine with a panicked look in his eyes.

"No, I mean, it works like that anyway, doesn't it? Everyone dies eventually, no matter who's there to see it. I mean, we're meant to lose the people we love, aren't we? If we didn't, we wouldn't really know how much they mean to us."

Blaine stared at Finn for a moment, seeing the sort of open earnestness on the older man's face, and Blaine couldn't decide whether to smile or cry.

He settled for a hand on Finn's and a gulp of gin, a half-smile and a "You sure can pick when to be profound, Hudson."

Finn snorted and nodded down at his glass, a little sheepish.

"I can, can't I?"

* * *

Blaine left his crew at the bar once Sam broke a beer bottle on the handle of Artie's wheelchair and uttered some vulgar war cry, content to let them sort it out themselves and mourn their hangovers when it came time to work the next morning, while Blaine enjoyed a long night's sleep.

Finn's words rested heavy and pressing in Blaine's mind as he called the elevator and tightened his coat against the draft floating through the hallway. It was not often that Finn shared his insight on the world, but when he did, it always left the cogs and wheels in Blaine's head spinning like clockwork.

Was that meant to be his fate? Enjoying the glow of youth while everyone he held dear was lost to the clutches of age? Something thick stuck in Blaine's throat and he jammed the lift button with an angry finger, wishing only to fall into bed, wrap himself in a cocoon of safe, warm blankets, and do anything but think too long about life and death and watching his mother and Kurt die and everything else he was most afraid of.

The lift finally arrived, clattering and banging as it came, and Blaine murmured his floor to the operator with a sigh, running a rough hand over his tired eyes.

"Hold the elevator!" someone barked, and Blaine startled as the operator flung an arm out to catch the metal doors as they closed. A tall, elegantly dressed man ushered a thin-faced woman into the elevator, nodding curtly at the operator while his eyes skimmed over Blaine completely. Blaine retreated quietly to the back corner of the elevator, tucking his hands in his pockets, and found he couldn't stop himself from staring at the tight-jawed stranger, who shrugged off his wife's touch with a flash of his clear green eyes and stood tall and rigid, the top of his neatly combed auburn hair a good five or so inches above Blaine's head.

Blaine's eyes traced over the man again, and then again, roaming seemingly of their own accord, taking in the broad set of his shoulders, the cut of his cheekbones that reminded Blaine fondly of Kurt – and Blaine supposed he should feet at least slightly bad for admiring this man so freely when Kurt was back in New Orleans waiting for his next letter, but Blaine had just a hum of alcohol in his veins and this man was… he was_beautiful. _Not in the way Kurt was, not really, Kurt was softer and sweeter, apples in his cheeks and cherries in his lips (at least, that was how Blaine remembered him – it had been nearly three years since he had last seen Kurt) whereas this stranger was hardened, all chiseled lines and pale color except for his eyes and hair, the expensive clothes he wore fitted and buttoned up just so. Blaine hardly registered what the woman at his side looked like, noticing only the beginning tendrils of gray in her hair and the inward set of her shoulders. Pale as the man was, he outcolored his wife by an entire spectrum.

The jolt of the elevator snapped Blaine from his staring, just for a moment before the man guided his wife from the elevator and threw a hard glance over his shoulder. Their eyes locked and Blaine's heart took up residence somewhere behind his Adam's apple.

"What are you looking at?" the man demanded bitterly, eyebrows lifting into a defiant arch, and Blaine shook his head quickly, dropping his gaze to his feet and thinking that if his heart could cause bruising, his throat would be black and blue in the morning.

"Sebastian," the woman said sharply, turning to stare pointedly at the back of Sebastian's head (Sebastian, _Se-bas-tian,_ Blaine wished he could sound it out and feel the syllables click against his teeth). The man – _Sebastian _ – huffed out an aggravated sigh, whirling stiffly and storming out of the elevator.

Blaine watched him go, caught somewhere between astonishment and disbelief, and Sebastian twisted back for just one second to pierce Blaine with the darkest, most speculating look Blaine had ever received.

* * *

Sebastian Smythe was, apparently, well known for those looks. The lord to some wealthy, worldwide company, Blaine learned that Sebastian and his hotheaded wife traveled the globe, staying in hotels such as these for lengthy amounts of time while managing business in the particular city. Mike seemed to know a lot about the Smythes, but if his condescending tone was any indication, he was not fond of them.

"They work with my father sometimes," Mike told Blaine over a cup of piping hot coffee to soothe his hangover the next morning. "Stuck up, arrogant bastards, all of them. Not exactly the kind of people you'd want to spend quality time with."

They had to get to work then, shoveling snow from the deck of _A New Direction_and shuddering against the icy blasts of wind that swept through the dawn at the harbor, and Blaine decided he would ask Mike more about the cold, hard-eyed man later.

The funny thing was, Blaine seemed to have a habit of becoming trapped in the lift with Sebastian Smythe. He would catch the elevator right before the doors closed, scarves and coattails trailing behind him as he tried to make up for an accidental late morning, and Sebastian would be there, wearing a silk dressing gown that looked entirely too thin for the drafty hotel, heavy bags under his eyes, and a thin eyebrow that raised at the sight of Blaine. He would stumble in with a clinging, wasted Mike on his shoulder at three in the morning on the weekend and Sebastian would look up, let out a sigh through his nose and tap a polished shoe against the floor. He would shrink in the corner while Sebastian and his wife snarled at each other in clipped, hushed voices that were still too loud for the confined space, and Blaine would look pleadingly at the operator, silently begging for him to make the elevator go faster. Sebastian was everywhere, and Blaine both hated it and enjoyed the slight thrill that shot up from his toes at every chance encounter.

Mike laughed at his peril and Blaine thought of different ways to trip Mike as a way to distract him from the arctic temperatures out on the water, and every day Blaine exchanged a cursory glance with Sebastian Smythe. They had never spoken, save for the _"What are you looking at?" _in the very beginning, and Blaine tried to keep his eyes to himself, but it was difficult when the cut of Sebastian's button-ups gave him a very clear view of the smooth, creamy skin just below his throat. Sebastian… _fascinated _Blaine, at the very root of it. He pondered the man's strange sleeping patterns, the perpetual angry scrunch of his brows, the hard set of his jawline. Sebastian Smythe was an enigma to Blaine, who could usually read people like an open book, and the simple fact that he _couldn't _was slowly driving Blaine mad.

Blaine worked hard, filling his day to the brim so he didn't have to think about Sebastian and the distracting pink of his lips any more than strictly necessary. He fell into bed each night with limbs that screamed their discomfort and eyes that drifted shut immediately, sometimes before he could even remove his shoes, exhausted to the point of delirium by nightfall.

He hadn't written Kurt in nearly a month.

It wasn't that he didn't _want _to, but Blaine wasn't sure what he would say. _I've been spending what time I'm not working on the boat to stare at a stranger who looks at me like I'm something stuck to his shoe _didn't exactly have the best ring, though Kurt would surely laugh at his dilemma. If Blaine could pick one word to describe his situation, it would be _floundering._

There came a night where Blaine lay flat on his back on his bed, drowning in his own exhaustion but unable to close his eyes. He traced over every crack in the ceiling, flipped onto his stomach and hummed a sleepy tune into his pillow, walked fifty paces back and forth from his bed to the door, but the clock ticked resolutely past midnight and Blaine was no closer to sleeping than he was to finding a solution to his perpetually cold toes.

Finally, he huffed out a long sigh and pushed himself up, groping for his glasses and robe, stuffing his chilly feet into slippers and moving towards the door with a soft groan. The hallways were quiet as he padded through them, almost as if Blaine was the only living soul in the entire building, and he shivered a little, clearing his throat just to break the eerie silence. A warm glow of light met his toes as he reached the staircase, cigarette smoke just barely reaching his nose, and Blaine had descended the first three steps before he realized that, sitting in the lobby with a cigarette to his lips, was none other then Sebastian Smythe.

This was just getting _ridiculous._

"Oh, I'm sorry," Blaine said quickly as Sebastian looked up, retracing his steps back up the stairs before Sebastian waved a long hang and said sharply, "It's fine – it's a hotel, isn't it?" Blaine swallowed and shuffled down the remaining stairs, stepping onto the plush rug that adorned the hardwood floors of the lobby while Sebastian returned his attention to the piles of paperwork in his lap with a drag of his cigarette, barely sparing Blaine a second glance. Blaine toyed with the tie of his robe and eyed the bottle of vodka sitting on the coffee table by Sebastian's knee as he made his way towards the tiny kitchen. He'd tried vodka before, and it usually didn't taste very pleasant without something to wash it down.

"Do you want anything?" Blaine blurted, catching the doorframe of the kitchen and leaning back towards Sebastian. He was met with an imperious eyebrow and the glow of embers at the end of the dwindling cigarette.

"I mean, you've obviously got – " Blaine gestured at the vodka, already regretting his loose tongue. "Just, I was going to make some tea, if you were interested…?"

Sebastian exhaled a lazy cloud of smoke, pulling the corner of his lip just slightly between his teeth, and Blaine swore his heart forgot how to beat for a few seconds.

"I'm fine, thank you." Sebastian replied coolly, and Blaine ran through a list of ways he could possibly swallow his tongue as he nodded jerkily and ducked back into the kitchen.

His cheeks were flaming as he fumbled with the stove and kettle, and he took a moment to bring the cool metal up to his face and let out a nervous breath. He didn't understand why Sebastian had to get him so… _flustered. _He was just a man with an ego that could rent out at least five of these rooms, whose radar did not even save a blip for Blaine – in fact, Blaine was almost positive Sebastian didn't even know his _name –_

"It's Blaine, isn't it?" Blaine almost dropped the kettle full of water right on his feet. Sebastian watched him slam it down onto the stove with more force than necessary from where he leaned against the doorframe, something that looked closer to a smirk than a smile playing on his lips.

"Yes," Blaine said quickly, relieved that for once his tongue did not wag out of his control. Sebastian nodded slowly and ground his cigarette out on the edge of the counter, slender fingers flicking the butt carelessly to the corner of the room. "It's – Sebastian…?"

"Smythe, yes." Sebastian tucked his hands into the pockets of his expensive slacks, cocking his hip as he shifted his weight against the doorframe. Blaine offered a hasty smile and returned his attention to the stove, grateful for the excuse to look away from Sebastian's scrutinizing eyes, but his eyes strayed, tracing the breadth of Sebastian's shoulders as the man reached up to the shelves, taking down two mugs and crooking an eyebrow.

"Change your mind?" Blaine murmured, smiling faintly and jerking his chin at the mugs. Sebastian shrugged lazily and crossed the small space to fold his lanky frame into one of the chairs.

"It's chilly in here."

Blaine and his toes agreed whole-heartedly.

The whistling of the teakettle broke the straining silence and Blaine poured the water, plucking teabags from the basket by his elbow and dropping them in the mugs, turning to sit across from Sebastian. He slid the mug towards Sebastian, who accepted it with a small nod and cupped his hands around it, sighing in the steam. Blaine cleared his throat slightly and stared down at the table, wondering if he was supposed to start conversation or let the silence become a solid wall.

"Not the best accommodations here, I'll have to admit." He forged ahead, nodding at the shambly kitchen, and Sebastian allowed a tight smile as he tested the heat of his mug with his fingertips.

"After living here for thirteen months, I can't say I've grown fond of it."

Blaine gaped slightly and Sebastian smirked and brought the mug to his lips for a cautious sip. "Thirteen _months_?"

"Mm. Unfortunately. Business here has not been as… smooth as preferred."

Blaine couldn't imagine staying here that long - several weeks in and he was longing for the warmth of his own bed and the smell of Quinn's perfume for the first time in years. The chill of this place settled in your bones, leaving them achy and brittle, and the emptiness stretched nights into eternities, and it was starting to take its toll on Blaine. Sebastian's bitter smiles and sharp tongue seemed more and more understandable by the minute.

"What do you do for a living?" Sebastian asked, tone politely interested, and Blaine suppressed a smile at the thought that this man was actually curious to know about _Blaine's _life.

"I'm a tugboat man," he said, shrugging. "I've been out with the crew for a good few years now. I'm heading back home in about a month, I believe."

"Ah. Do you enjoy it? The freedom?"

"I do." Blaine tilted his head to the side, considering Sebastian, who cut his eyes back down and busied himself with his tea. "You don't have freedom? Clearly you're from a wealthy family, you can travel wherever you want…?"

"It's not that simple," Sebastian said sharply, and Blaine pressed his lips together and scraped at a knot in the table with his thumbnail. "It's… never mind. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Try me." Sebastian's eyes flickered up, impossibly green in the dim light, and for the first time Blaine saw what was beating against those irises: loneliness. Sebastian felt as alone as Blaine did in the middle of the night, in a hotel whose walls were too thin to keep out the cold.

"It's never what I wanted," Sebastian said lowly, tracing the lip of his mug with a finger. "None of this. Not the job, not the travelling, not the money… not the marriage…"

Blaine shifted as Sebastian peeled back, layer by layer, breaking down the perfect wall he had so painstakingly built around himself, admitting things that, in the dead of night, did not seem as awful as they might in the light of day. A hotel kitchen can hold secrets as well as anything else, and Blaine felt as if it were closed off from the rest of the world, a tiny haven where class and lack of familiarity did not matter, and Blaine as watched the set of Sebastian's shoulders relaxed, the lines around his eyes began to smooth, and when he let out a laugh at one of Blaine's stories about his crew's misadventures, it was so genuine that Blaine was almost afraid the moment would shatter to the ground like glass.

"I just… I want to do something that means more than this," Sebastian said, sighing a little. He was leaned back in his chair, ankle hooked at his knee, tea lukewarm and forgotten in the midst of the conversation. "I don't want to go through every day pretending that this is what I wanted for myself. I'm so… _exhausted _with this mask I wear every moment."

"I don't see it now," Blaine said softly, and Sebastian blinked at him, eyes just slightly heavy with the late hour, and Blaine watched the part of Sebastian's lips, imagined leaning forward –

"It's late," Sebastian breathed, and unless Blaine was sorely mistaken, Sebastian's eyes were currently burning a hole in Blaine's mouth as well. Blaine swallowed tightly and nodded, shifting back and gathering his empty mug with a shaky hand. He could almost feel Sebastian's eyes on him as he rinsed the mug in the leaky sink and he tried to reason with himself.

_He's married. To a woman._

_We're just making conversation._

_I'm staring at him like he's something to eat._

_He's staring back._

_A _woman!

_Even if he wasn't it would still be wrong._

_Wouldn't it?_

"Why did you always watch me?" Sebastian asked, and his voice was low, sending a tremor running the length of Blaine's spine. He gripped the edge of the sink, gathering himself before turning back to face Sebastian, now leaning against the table, arms folded across his chest. "Back in the elevator, you were always looking."

Blaine was not exactly in control of his tongue whilst under pressure.

"I was noticing how lonely you look."

Sebastian stared at him for several seconds that felt weightless, and if Blaine hadn't known better, he would have said that Sebastian looked vulnerable. Blaine took in a trembling breath and lifted a shoulder, flushing a little.

"You look lonely," he said softly, and there was a beat of absolute silence before Sebastian was crowding Blaine against the side of the sink, hands fisted in Blaine's shirt before Sebastian crushed his lips to Blaine's. Blaine jerked back, shocked, but Sebastian was working his lips open, kissing hot and desperate and nothing at all like how the prostitute back at the brothel all those years ago had kissed, and Blaine figured he should be panicking, throwing Sebastian off him in disgust and horror, but the simple fact was, Sebastian was very adamant and very, _very _male, and it was all Blaine could do not to moan and melt into a puddle right then and there.

Sebastian's hand raked up Blaine's chest to grip the back of his neck, twisting into Blaine's hair, and Blaine couldn't help but whimper as Sebastian darted his tongue across the seam of Blaine's lips, and Blaine could _taste _Sebastian, hot in his mouth and heavy in his breath and he scrambled at Sebastian's shoulders, trying to drag him _closer._

Sebastian huffed out a muffled _"god" _against the corner of Blaine's mouth, allowing Blaine half a second to draw breath before they were kissing again, clacking teeth and open mouths, completely uninhibited and messy until Blaine's brain caught up with his tongue and he pulled back with a wet noise that sent a thrill all the way down through his toes. Sebastian's hair was fallen over his forehead, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red, eyes half-lidded and closer to starving than hungry, and Blaine pressed an open hand to his chest, feeling Sebastian's heart pound heavily in his palm.

"You're married," Blaine whispered breathlessly, feeling every line of Sebastian against every line of him and wanting nothing more than to bring Sebastian's mouth back to his, but _god, _Sebastian was _married _and this was _wrong –_

"It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you," Sebastian said easily, a dark smile spreading like a stain across his lips, and Blaine faltered, but the edge of the sink was digging into his spine and it was starting to _hurt._

"I – I guess –" Blaine was usually so good with words, sure of himself and level-headed under pressure, but every ounce of that was balanced on the tip of Sebastian's finger. Blaine tried to level himself, think of how reckless this was, think of what Kurt, with his big eyes and innocent smile, would think of him now, but Sebastian was inching closer, mouthing teasingly at the length of Blaine's neck, and Blaine's brain was beginning to white out again.

"It _is _late," he gasped, dipping his head back to give Sebastian better access to his neck anyway, and Sebastian hummed noncommittally against the bump of his collarbone before straightening back up, looking dejectedly in agreement.

"That it is," he whispered, sliding his hand down Blaine's arm and stepping back, relieving the pressure on Blaine's spine and letting his eyes wander down Blaine's body with a sly smile. "Sleep tight, Blaine. I'm sure we'll meet again soon."

And, with a blinding grin, Sebastian left Blaine standing there in the kitchen with knees like jelly and lips still swollen, shocked to find his pajama pants too tight across his front and wondering if it was all just a colorful dream.

But the next night, when Blaine ignored the twisting feeling in his stomach and ventured downstairs, Sebastian was there, wearing his dressing gown and an inviting smile, and Blaine sat gingerly on the couch next to him, looking for any sign that Sebastian regretted the previous night and finding none. Their shoulders brushed and Sebastian complained about the paperwork he was doing in an amused, friendly way, and Blaine smiled and nodded along, feeling content and warm not the slightest bit tired. He agreed without second thought when Sebastian suggested they meet again the following midnight.

They drank the cheap wine from the kitchen on the third night, and Blaine watched in giddy amusement as Sebastian shuffled across the dusty carpet, humming a half-familiar tune and twirling with the wine bottle still clutched in his hand.

"You have a nice voice," Blaine called softly, and Sebastian snorted, so completely undignified and relaxed that Blaine almost wiggled his toes in delight.

"Mmm, if only it were good for something," he sighed, rounding the coffee table and clunking the wine down, smiling slyly before promptly straddling Blaine's waist, one hand smoothing up Blaine's chest.

"It – it could be. Someday." Blaine inhaled sharply, tripping over his words again, and Sebastian leaned over him, resting his forearms on the back of the couch.

"Do I make you nervous?" Sebastian whispered, bumping his forehead against Blaine's. Blaine stammered out something that could have been a "no" but was more than likely not English, and Sebastian grinned, all teeth and arching eyebrows.

"Clearly."

"I just… I barely know you," Blaine admitted in a whisper, resting his hands almost unconsciously on Sebastian's waist, and Sebastian frowned a little, cocking his head to the side. "And… you're _married._"

"And I said I didn't care," Sebastian said lowly, shifting back on his thighs and meeting Blaine's eyes seriously. "All I need to know that when I'm with you, I feel something other than hatred for this fucking _façade _I put up every day. I don't care that it's only been a few days. I don't care that you're older. I don't _care._"

Blaine sucked in a sharp breath, thumbs rubbing anxiously into Sebastian's hips, felt the air in his lungs tremble as the rest of him did.

"Being here with you…" Sebastian shifted in Blaine's lap, squeezing a hand at Blaine's shoulder. "I feel happy. It's freeing. _You _are freeing."

Blaine smiled tremulously, tracing the embroidery of Sebastian's dressing gown with his fingertip. "That's all I want," he murmured. "That's all I've ever wanted, is to make people happy."

Sebastian's fingers found Blaine's chin and Blaine looked up and saw the world in Sebastian's eyes before they were kissing, needy and wanting and shaking for each other.

"Dance with me," Sebastian whispered, and Blaine did.

* * *

"Are you alright, Blaine?"

Blaine jerked up, nearly stumbling right into Mike, who steadied and appraised him with a stub of a cigarette in his teeth, eyebrows raised.

"What?"  
"You've been almost falling asleep on the job for days now. You alright?"

Blaine felt himself flushing pink, and hoped Mike would blame it on the cold. "I'm fine. Definitely fine. Just… the beds make sleeping difficult sometimes." The fib was easy; the beds really were a tragedy.

"Mm. Alright, then." Mike nodded at Blaine and turned away, flicking his cigarette over the rail Blaine rested his weight against. Blaine gazed out at the water and sucked in a breath, blinking through the cotton in his head.

He had been crawling into bed at nearly four in the morning every night for the past week, limbs light and floaty and his head spinning miles away from his body after hours spent with Sebastian. They met every night when the chandeliers were low and the cold was stronger than the fortress of a blanket, but they kept each other warm.

Sebastian smoked sometimes, a long arm draped over the back of the sofa and a curl of smoke on his lips, a touch of ash on his teeth when they kissed. Blaine spread creased hands over Sebastian's and guided his fingers above the keys of the piano, not touching, silent so they kept the hotel sleeping, but Blaine could hear the melody anyway, when Sebastian smiled up at him.

They talked endlessly, about everything from life to death, marriage and loneliness, dreams and fears that kept them lying awake at night. Blaine had never felt more connected to a person before, not even to Mike or Kurt. Sebastian seemed to understand him, didn't blink an eye when Blaine admitted his condition in a small, trembling voice, and he told Blaine his own secrets, matter-of-fact and blunt in the privacy of the tiny kitchen.

Sometimes they ventured out, clicking the deadbolt open and crunching through the snow, naming the stars and trying to make shapes and rings with their icy breath, finally giving up and kissing long and unafraid in the sleeping streets.

They kissed everywhere. Draped across the sofa in the lobby, Sebastian slotted long and lean between Blaine's thighs; the kitchen, pressed up against cabinets and pans with the taste of herbal tea still on their lips. They kissed on the stairs, the hallways, against the wall by Blaine's room, and Blaine couldn't believe what a pair of lips on his own could do to him, how it could shake him loose and stammering with clumsy fingers and the inability to speak. When he wasn't kissing Sebastian and was instead on the freezing deck of _A New Direction, _he thought about kissing Sebastian, the small noises in the back of his throat, the way his hands grasped at Blaine like he was special, like he was normal, like he was _wanted, _and a nervous, heated thrum would start up low in his stomach and the hours seemed to drag triple until night fell and the hotel became their own again.

As of late, Sebastian's hands were wandering, lower and wider, searching and teasing and asking but Blaine always evaded them, distracted Sebastian with a sucking bite to his lower lip or a tug on his hair. He wanted, _God, _he wanted, but he was afraid. Afraid of not being good enough, desirable enough, young enough; Blaine feared being a toy with not enough uses and too short a time to discover them all.

But the first time Blaine worked up the courage to touch himself, locked in his room while Mike and Sam drank downstairs and Rory snapped at Cooper about his awful impersonation of an Irish accent, the sheets were twisted around his knees and the sweat was hot on his brow, and Blaine thought of a different set of hands and he was no longer afraid.

* * *

It started with a key, snagged from its hook behind the front desk. It was small, bronze, marked with a number only glanced at before they were ascending stairs and shuffling down hallways, hands under shirts and mouths exploring necks and shoulders, ears and collarbones in hurried sweeps before crashing back together, wet and desperate.

More accurately, Blaine knew the key was not actually the start of it all (he thought it might have begun with too-tight pants and heat against thighs and a whisper of _I want you _and the groan of _please, yes _before scrambling off the couch), but Sebastian's hands were gripping his ass and _squeezing, _and Blaine's fist was so tightly clenched around the key that its teeth were biting sharply into his palm, and his mind was very, _very_ preoccupied.

"No, it's back a few," Sebastian gasped, laughing in a huff against Blaine's neck and nudging Blaine backwards before promptly reattaching his lips to Blaine's pulse.

"This one? Ah, got it – _god, _Seb -" Blaine bit back an embarrassingly loud moan as Sebastian backed him against the door matching the key number and rolled his hips in, grinding against Blaine through their thin pajama pants, and Blaine swore he saw stars.

This was entirely new, the grinding, less so the desperate ache in his groin, and Blaine's brain was still trying to catch up to his dick, but so far, he wasn't minding Sebastian's hands below the waistband of his pants, or the taller man's lips and teeth at his neck. Hell might a special seat saved for the both of them, but Blaine was enjoying the ride there rather a _lot._

Sebastian palmed the key from Blaine's trembling fingers and fumbled behind him, breath hot and heavy against Blaine's shoulder, and Blaine took the moment to sag back against the wall, sucking in deep gulps of air. Every inch of him was tingling, tense and coiled with the chemistry humming between the pair of them. Finally, Sebastian got the door unlocked and shouldered his way in, tugging Blaine after him and taking a brief pause to slam and lock the door behind them. In a heartbeat they were kissing again, Sebastian's fingers yanking at the buttons of Blaine's pajama shirt, Blaine's hands hesitantly sliding down the small of Sebastian's back to rest on his ass. Sebastian hummed his approval into Blaine's mouth, tongue twisting filthily as he pressed backwards into Blaine's hands.

The darkness jumped back to the corners of the room as Sebastian flicked on the lamp, dropping back onto the bed and grinning up at Blaine, eyes dark and hungry.

"I want to see you," he murmured, drawing Blaine close, and Blaine pulled up a shaky smile and straddled Sebastian's waist, hands grasping at his shoulders as they both settled flat onto the bed. Sebastian surged up again, the kiss open and messy before it even started, and Blaine let out a tiny whimper as he ground down into Sebastian's lap, pants tented too tight and heat throbbing through his whole body. Sebastian gasped harshly, grabbing Blaine's waist and rolling, hitching Blaine's leg around his hip and thrusting his tongue into Blaine's mouth. Blaine noticed dimly, squinting through the heat pressing against his eyelids, that Sebastian's shirt was already gone, and Blaine raked his palm down Sebastian's toned chest, sighing breathily at the way Sebastian shuddered under his touch.

"Can I –?" Sebastian slid the arms of Blaine's shirt off his shoulder, a questioning eyebrow raised, and Blaine nodded readily, helping Sebastian toss the shirt to the side and moaning when Sebastian leaned down to kiss wetly across Blaine's chest. Their bodies rocked together, every tilt of their hips catching like sparks and sending bursts of pleasure up Blaine's spine, settling heavy in the pit of his stomach, and he gasped for breath, throwing his head back against the pillow. Sebastian's fingers hooked in the waistband of Blaine's pants, and Blaine caught at his hand, a moment of brief panic seizing his limbs.

"I've – I've never –" Sebastian's eyes blazed in the dim light and he ran his hands slowly up Blaine's ribs, whispering, "I know. Don't worry."

Blaine dropped his arm across his eyes and nodded, tilting his hips to let Sebastian tug his pants down around his thighs, feeling the rush of cold air hit his flaming skin and biting back a moan as Sebastian bent to suck a bruise into Blaine's hip, tongue soothing the sharp pinch.

"God, you want it bad, don't you?" Sebastian whispered, pushing himself off Blaine to wiggle out of his own pants, and Blaine nodded again, mute at the sight of Sebastian, bare and disheveled and _hungry for him, _practically whining for Sebastian to kiss him, touch him, _anything_. Sebastian surged forward to slam their lips together, rolling his hips hard into Blaine's, skin sliding feverishly against bare skin, and oh, _oh, fuck._

"Tell me that you want me," he growled in Blaine's ear, breath hot and panting against Blaine's neck, and Blaine grabbed a fistful of Sebastian's hair, surprising even himself, and drug Sebastian's lips back to his.

"Tell me," Sebastian ground out, and there was a desperate edge to his voice that Blaine was getting used to hearing.

"I want you," Blaine whispered, a breathy moan dragging through the last word, and Sebastian groaned, straddling Blaine's thigh and yanking Blaine's hips up.

The first dry, rough touch to Blaine's cock jolted him up off the bed, a harsh whine breaking high and long from his lips. Sebastian leaned forward, dragging a breathy kiss over Blaine's lips before swiping his tongue over his hand and returning it to Blaine's cock, fisting loosely and pumping upwards in a rough stroke, and Blaine thought he could actually hear his brain leaking out his ears. It was too dry and filthy and nothing at all like Blaine had ever imagined this encounter going, but he wasn't very well going to ask Sebastian to _stop_, not when he was panting and whining and rolling his hips into Sebastian's hand, needy to the point of desperate.

"Fuck," Sebastian gritted out, groaning through his teeth as Blaine writhed, no longer aware of whether or not the sounds stumbling from his lips were full words or not. "I need to... god, I need to fuck you. Okay?"

Overwhelmed and quickly losing the ability of brainpower, Blaine twisted his hands into the sheets and nodded, keening a little as Sebastian abruptly dropped his hold on Blaine's cock, and Blaine wondered briefly if someone could actually die from this, from feeling so achingly hard and desperate that it was almost a _taste_ on the back of his tongue, an atom bomb thrumming through his whole body, down to the tips of his curling toes.

Sebastian sat back on his heels, hair falling over his damp forehead, one hand pumping himself frantically, so utterly and devastatingly gorgeous and _hungry_ that Blaine had to stifle a low moan in the back of his throat. His heart thundered in his chest, thrumming in his goddamn _teeth_, and he was terrified but _ready,_ god, so ready to be held and filled and own and be owned by. For twenty two years Blaine had been searching, and if this is what he had been looking for all along, Blaine was damn well going to take it with a smile.

Or a moan, as Sebastian hooked a hand under Blaine's thigh and flipped him with ease onto his stomach, tugging Blaine up onto his knees so he was open and exposed, and Blaine's breath caught, suddenly so self conscious. He wasn't prime by any means, his body still so old for his mind and obviously so; lines creased him all over like a dog-eared book and his limbs shook slightly, unused to the sudden rush of blood south, but Sebastian pressed a hard, possessive kiss to the bottom of Blaine's spine, fingers kneading at Blaine's ass as he fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown, and he mumbled, "fuck, perfect," and Blaine decided that for now he would believe him.

Blaine jolted as something cold and wet brushed against the crease of his ass and Sebastian petted a long hand up Blaine's back, settling him, and Blaine slumped forward against his arms, panting hot in the space between his mouth and the bedsheets, groaning softly as Sebastian's fingers, slippery with what Blaine assumed was lube (he was not, by any means, completely clueless, not with a crew of experienced boathands by his side every waking moment) worked their way inside him. Blaine bit down hard on his lip, pain flashing both up his spine and through his mouth as Sebastian pushed in harder, spreading two fingers wide and breathing heavily against the curve of Blaine's back.

The sensation was foreign and terrifying, and crackles of pain shot through him whenever Sebastian shifted, but Blaine found himself rocking back, seeking out the blunt pressure as he throbbed, hard and aching and searching for friction on the sheets beneath him with a stream of nonsense on his lips. Sebastian moaned, long and unashamed, murmuring soft praises mixed with half-uttered curses as he worked Blaine open, fingers deft and quick while Blaine slowly but surely began to pull apart at the seams. His whole body pulsated with a current, breath shuddering too fast, and he gasped harshly when Sebastian pulled his fingers out, leaving him shuddering and stretched open. And then Sebastian was gripping his hips with bruising fingers and Sebastian was inside him, slick and warm and absolutely overwhelming, filling him up until Blaine thought he was going to brim over with it. He hissed against the pain, stifling a cry into the pillow as Sebastian settled, the sounds of his labored breath filling Blaine's ears while his cock filled the rest of him, and Blaine couldn't think, could barely breathe, he was bursting, every nerve writhing with stimuli, his mind just a steady stream of _fuck Sebastian fuck fuck._

"God, Blaine," Sebastian growled, and he rocked forward, causing Blaine to tighten up on instinct and Blaine wondered briefly whether or not their combined moans had rattled the ceiling.

"Fuck," Sebastian breathed, and his hips rolled again, starting up a rhythm that quickly increased until Blaine swore Sebastian's hipbones were going to leave bruises against his ass in the morning. But he didn't care, loved it, even, the burn of dull pain giving way to absolute, mind-numbing pleasure. He relished every new angle that jolted up his spine and punched moans from his lips, memorized the hitch of Sebastian's breath and the scrabble of his nails into Blaine's back, the building wave of need and _Sebastian_and _oh god_ taking hold of every limb and dragging him into weightlessness. He turned his head, cheek pressing hard against the mattress, stretching to see Sebastian, wanting to see his eyes blown dark and his mouth open and panting, because Blaine could do that to him. Blaine, who had never had much of an impact on anyone, was wanted and owned and capable of wrecking Sebastian Smythe until he cried out Blaine's name.

Come on," Blaine bit out, fingers clenched so tightly in the sheets his knuckles matched the fabric, and Sebastian let out a satisfied bark of laughter and reached around, gripping Blaine's cock in a sure, flexing hand, and when Sebastian hissed Blaine's name into his ear, tongue twisting around the word and making it filthy and raw like a curse, Blaine was done. He came with a long, splintering cry and a white heat that burst against his eyes and rocked his whole body, flooding him with an electric charge that surged down through his toes and left him limp and gasping against the bed while Sebastian thrust once, twice, and again before moaning and jerking inside him, body melting forward to spread across Blaine's back, a tangle of sweaty, shaking limbs and his breath against the knob of Blaine's spine.

Blaine's hips slumped down, legs spreading to lay loose and quaking as the haze clouding his head slowly receded, lingering to buzz through his every vein. Sebastian pulled out wetly and they both winced, Blaine letting out a soft whine into the sheets as he clenched down on nothing. His skin felt three times its usual size and deflated, let down from the warm weight inside him and he tried to remember how to move as Sebastian chuckled lazily above him and dropped an open mouthed kiss on Blaine's shoulder.

"This is a good look on you," he murmured, voice rough, and Blaine twisted his head to see him properly, see the swollen lips and mussed hair, and he smiled, reaching out to push the damp strands from Sebastian's forehead.

I could say the same for you," he mumbled sleepily, eyelids drooping, but Sebastian ah-ah-ahed and forced Blaine up so they could strip the bed and clean off, dressing slowly and clumsily as the clock on the dresser ticked past three am. Blaine moved gingerly, every muscle he knew sore and the ones he didn't even more so, but the smile on his face seemed permanently fixed as he watched Sebastian dress, long and lean and even more gorgeous now that Blaine knew what he looked like completely exposed and undone.

Sebastian tied the string of his dressing gown in a careless knot and stepped forward, crowding Blaine against the door and kissing Blaine hot and slow, unconcerned with technique as his tongue licked lazily into Blaine's mouth.

"Remember the room number," Sebastian hummed once Blaine's lips were swollen and he had forgotten how to open his eyes, and Blaine nodded, reaching behind him to open the door with a fumbling hand.

They went their separate ways, each to a room that was cold and did not smell of each other, and Blaine lay there in the darkness, with every breath replaying the night in his mind until he drifted off to sleep, still feeling Sebastian's fingers against his skin.


End file.
